Somehow, with his sister’s support, Cooper had escaped to the University of South Carolina in Columbia. Granted, not far from home, but far enough. He was out from under his father’s roof. By the time he got to college, he’d had his fill of drink and drugs. It took a lot of rehab and therapy to realize he preferred to be sober. For the first time in his academic life, Cooper had actually applied himself. He studied. He attended classes. He excelled. So much so, he was recommended for a junior year abroad at Oxford for international business.

He’d loved every minute there. The private tutorials gave him no room to bullshit or dodge questions. He’d learned to come prepared to think and speak his mind. And he’d loved the British way of speaking clearly, intelligently, relishing the use of the English language in all its intricacies and history. Many Brits remembered poems at a moment’s notice. Cooper had started reading poetry and the classics, just to keep up. He’d looked forward to the rest of his term there, perhaps trying to arrange another year, or at the very least a summer.

The black car made its way through the town of Mount Pleasant. Through the darkened windows he saw how the city had changed just in the past year. It seemed apartments and houses had sprouted up on every square inch of land, edging farther into the boggy wetlands. As he crossed the vast marshland from the mainland onto Sullivan’s Island, he adjusted his seat and rubbed his face, waking more. He felt his blood stir at being so close to home. It had been a manic few days of arranging for his ticket to the States, then throwing whatever he had into his luggage in record time. There was a mass exodus of Americans; classes were closed, and everyone was worried about getting out. The transatlantic flight had been packed, and few people made any effort to wear a mask. Sitting in coach toward the rear of the plane, his legs pinched almost against his chest, was one of the few times he’d regretted being over six feet tall. But he was home at last.

Home. Cooper leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees as he looked out the window. The car drove along the oak-lined streets of the island, past quaint cottages that had survived a century of storms. He knew these streets like the back of his hand, had raced his bicycle along the rutted roads and, later, roared past in his truck filled with hootin’ and hollerin’ friends. He had mixed emotions where he saw the changes. This was no longer the sleepy neighborhood he’d grown up in. No longer shabby-chic. The impressive new houses, each worth millions, were decidedly upscale.

His lips curved upward as the car pulled into the driveway. Then there was his family’s house. It looked just as he’d remembered—the overgrown shrubs; the scrubby lawn, more sand than grass; the ancient oak drooping enormous cragged limbs to the earth; the white, plain-fronted house on pilings. His mother was right, he thought as he pushed the dark hair from his broad forehead. It was an ugly house. And he was glad of it. Something had not changed.