I start walking toward the front door, but Charlie points to a side gate.

“This way,” he says.

He holds the gate open for me and I walk through it. I wait as he locks the gate behind himself and we start heading down a pathway that runs along the side of the house, succulents and plants lining the path’s edges.

We walk side by side, Charlie on the path’s outer edge. I look into the house—look through those long, French windows—to see room after room, every one of them lit up.

I wonder if it’s all lit up for my benefit—so I can see how impressive the design is, how every detail has been considered. The long, winding hallway is lined with expensive art, with black-and-white photographs. The grand room has cathedral ceilings and deep wooden couches. And the farmhouse kitchen, which wraps around the back of the house, is accented with a terra-cotta floor and an enormous stone fireplace.

I keep thinking how Nicholas lives here alone. What is it like to live in a house like this alone?

The pathway winds around to a checkered veranda, which displays antique pillars and a breathtaking view of the lake—small boats twinkling in the distance, a canopy of oak trees, the cooling calm of the water itself.

And a moat.

This house, Nicholas Bell’s house, has its own moat. It’s a stark reminder that there is no getting in or out of here without explicit permission.

Charlie points at a row of chaise lounges, sitting down in one himself, the lake glistening in the distance.

I avoid meeting his eyes, staring out at the small boats instead. I know why I needed to come here. But now that I’m actually here, it feels like an error. Like I should have heeded Charlie’s warning, like nothing good is waiting inside.

“Take a seat anywhere,” Charlie says.

“I’m fine,” I say.

“He could be a little while,” Charlie says.

I lean against one of the pillars.

“I’m okay standing,” I say.

“Maybe it’s not you that you should be worrying about…”

I turn at the sound of a male’s voice, startled to find Nicholas standing in the back doorway. He has two dogs by his side, two large chocolate Labradors. Their eyes hold tightly on Nicholas.

“Those pillars aren’t as strong as they look,” he says.

I step away from the pillar. “Sorry about that,” I say.

“No, no. I kid, I just kid with you,” he says.

He waves his hand as he walks toward me, his fingers slightly crooked. This thin man with a struggling goatee—frail-looking with those arthritic fingers, his loose-fitting jeans, his cardigan sweater.