She runs away, and I can finally take a deep breath. At least she’s inside the house. But the door is open, and this guy is still on our property. I feel alone and small. No matter how hard I want to be strong, I’m still a woman in a world of angry men.

“I have no comment for you. Leave or I’m calling the cops.”

He smiles. “The cops? Are you sure they’d even come? After all, you’re Joe Causey’s sister, the woman who’s trying to put him in jail. And if he goes down, he’s definitely going to bring some of his dirty cop buddies with him.”

“Good,” I say, my voice tight. “Now leave.”

“Mateo Garza is a player. He’ll take you for a ride. Send the tabloids after you. Then he’ll leave. Trust me. I’ve been following the guy for years.”

It’s strange. The words shouldn’t have any effect on me. I don’t have any romantic ideas about Mateo. Even if I did, in the deep-down place where my womanhood can’t help but recognize a handsome man, they’re only temporary. I would never be with a man like him. In fact, I will never be with a man at all. My safety and my independence mean too much.

“Get out,” I tell him. “Don’t come back.”

He backs up a few steps, but his hands go to the camera. The shutter clicks. This asshole is taking photos of me, and I know what it’s going to look like. The same as I did on that news website. Me, hysterical and furious. “See you around, Emily.”

Somehow the way he says my name sounds disrespectful. He wanders down the road, which winds down to the bottom of the cliff.

I cross my arms over my stomach and watch him go.

Only when he’s out of sight do I return to the house. And lock the door.

The idyllic moment with the kitchen door open and the mama bird feels miles away.

“What was that man talking about Uncle Mateo for?” asks Paige.

Part of me wants to collapse from the pounding fear. And the intense relief of having him gone. But I force myself to present a calm façade for my daughter. “He’s not a good man. He’s a reporter stirring up trouble. Nothing is happening between me and Uncle Mateo.”

I get out plates. I pour glasses of water from the Brita. Paige and I sit down at the table with our muffins. My palms are slick with anxiety. This conversation is going to be a big deal. For me. For Paige. I’d hoped I wouldn’t have to have it with her yet.