I wasn’t crazy. I was determined. To stay. My fingers traced the raised scar on my stomach through the thin cotton of my t-shirt. Habit. A way of reminding myself that I could never be too careful. Too much was at stake.

With that in mind, my gaze traveled over the kitchen. I moved to the counter, adjusting the vase of flowers. I already had Mr. James’ favorite beer chilling in the refrigerator. Along with an artfully arranged charcuterie board that only needed to be unwrapped and set out.

Plenty of belongings had been sent ahead. I’d moved all of the boxes marked clothing to the closet. I’d wanted to open them to get a feel for the man by way of his garments but had thought better of it. I doubted he would be prepared for island weather coming from New York. I’d already begun a list of things he’d likely need me to order. A heavy-duty rain jacket, muck boots.

But maybe his lack of preparedness meant that he wouldn’t be spending much time at the estate. I glanced out the wall of windows at the back of the house and knew I was wrong. Four large crates marked studio had arrived, along with the rest of Mr. James’ belongings. No one brought that much stuff if they only planned on staying for the summers and an occasional long weekend or two.

My lips pressed into a firm line as I headed out of the main house and followed the path down the hill. I passed the vegetable garden and the greenhouse. The small chicken coop that provided more than enough fresh eggs. Finally, I arrived at the guest house. My home. My haven.

I pulled open the door, inhaling the soothing scent of lavender from the candle I’d burned earlier in the day. A touchstone. The therapist I’d seen after my attack had advised that I should build as many of them into my daily routine as possible. Things that reminded me I was safe. A scent. A sound. A feeling.

Years later, I’d kept up with the habit. Lavender. The sea. A smooth beach stone. Those things and my music always helped me fight the memories.

Over the past three years, I’d slowly made the small cottage my home. I’d come to it with virtually nothing. The quilt my mother and aunt had made me. My violin. The bare minimum clothing. Photos I couldn’t bear to look at. But bit by bit, I’d infused myself into the space. A painting by a local artist. An antique tray from Second Chances. Stacks of sheet music. It was mine now, and I wouldn’t leave it without a fight.