Maybe she was still asleep.

Or in an alternate reality.

“Chase,” her mother called from the kitchen, her voice impatient. Chase heard a refrigerator door open, bottles clinking.

“How did you . . . I mean, what are you doing here?” Chase blinked against the brightness as she made her way past the huge stone dining table anchoring eight chairs. Outside the swath of windows, gulls screamed and dipped toward the surf pounding the California beach. The light still blinded her, so she shaded her eyes as she trudged to the kitchen island.

“First, breakfast.” Lorna Steele London used a wooden spoon to stir the concoction in the skillet. The red Viking range had six burners and looked almost out of place in the sterile white-marbled kitchen. But her nipped-and-tucked mother looked even more out of place.

So many thoughts rushed through Chase’s head. How had her mother found her? Why had Lorna showed up . . . here? Like she owned the joint. And how did her mother know where the pots and pans were?

Lorna whistled under her breath as she tended the eggs. Her mother wore a pair of Lycra leggings and a soft cashmere top that hit her midthigh. A silk scarf held sandy hair away from her smooth cheeks and perfectly made-up face. She looked like a modern version of Doris Day.

But much meaner. Definitely much meaner.

Lorna scooped steaming eggs onto a plate and set them on the bar at the end of the huge kitchen island. “Here. Sit.”

Chase shuffled toward the bar, keeping an eye on her mother just in case she turned into a flesh-eating zombie. She eased herself onto a stool, her gaze still on Lorna.

The woman impersonating June Cleaver handed her a fork. “Eat.”

Chase looked down at the scrambled eggs on the white plate. She’d known her mother had cooked once upon a time. Lorna had been raised in Georgia and bragged about her ability to make cheese grits and put a good scald on a pot of collard greens, whatever that was, but the woman had never made Chase breakfast before. Now, she had handed her a fruit cup or a protein shake on set, but to use actual fire to cook something? Never had Lorna ever.

Her mother leaned against the counter, picked up her cell phone, and started tapping.

Chase didn’t eat. Instead she watched, waiting for her mother to rage at her for relapsing so soon after getting out of Northcross Rehab.

After a full minute, Lorna looked up, glanced pointedly at the plate, and arched a perfectly shaped eyebrow.

Chase scooped a bit of egg into her mouth, chewed, and tried not to gag.

Her mother gave a barely perceptible nod and walked past the island to the outside door. Opening it, she said, “Thank you for coming so quickly, Tom. They’re in the living area and master suite. Please confiscate phones, delete any incriminating photos or videos, check their social media for pictures of Chase, delete accounts, and return the phones. If they refuse, call the police and have them arrested for trespassing.”