Stillness encased the entire block. Nothing moved, except for gently swaying branches. Most likely, she could stay here for a short period of time without anyone noticing.

The Dutch blue trim of the home emphasized its muted brick exterior and charming black front door. Planting beds tucked tidy shrubs against the base of the structure. The flowerpots on the front step burst with geraniums.

When she was brought home from the hospital as a newborn, she ought to have been brought here, to this stately Americana home. It was easy to picture a baby nursery in that front right room. It would have a big window, wood floors, crown molding.

In her earliest memories, she’d lived in an uninspiring two-bedroom apartment. Dad had had the design aesthetic of a frat boy; Mom had accessorized their hodgepodge furniture with international treasures from places she’d never had the opportunity to visit. A wall hanging from India. Art from Venezuela. A tablecloth from Thailand. Those items had been colorful, but they’d also reinforced the message Mom had communicated in a million subtle and not-so-subtle ways. Namely, I’d rather be anywhere other than here.

How different would her childhood have been, had Leah grown up in this place?

Very different.

Memory-laden minutes slid past.

She had enough familiarity with Zillow.com from when she’d been shopping for a house in Misty River to know that the site provided data on a property’s prior sales. She accessed the site on her phone and ran a search. After some scrolling and clicking, she discovered that this house had been purchased by new owners five times since the year of her birth.

In fact, it had been sold just four years after she’d been born, ostensibly by Trina and Jonathan, if they’d been owners and not renters when they’d lived here. Either way, Trina and Jonathan hadn’t resided here in a long, long time.

She was glad she’d come, nonetheless. This detour had provided insight into her biological mother and father and what her upbringing might have been like had they been the ones to raise her.

Her family life hadn’t been wretched. Her needs had been met. That said, her family life hadn’t been as pretty as the picture this house presented, either.

Just because the house looks ideal on the outside doesn’t mean that the Brooksides’ life was ideal, Leah.

Yes, but what if the family life on the inside did match the ideal on the outside? If so, how was she supposed to reconcile herself to that?

When Leah arrived home from Atlanta that evening, her house welcomed her with silence and a lingering whiff of pineapple from her unlit candle. Dylan was gone, hanging out with his friend Braxton.