“In the 1800s?”

“Probably,” he laughed, coasting to a stop beside Cora’s Land Rover and Don’s Tesla. Morgan breathed a silent sigh of relief, taking solace in the fact that they wouldn’t be there alone. Not that it mattered. She was sure this place—like the Reynoldses’ actual home—was large enough to get lost in.

It was. What the Reynoldses had humbly dubbed their “cabin” was a multimillion-dollar lake house. Morgan said a silent R.I.P. to the hundreds of cedar trees that had died to build this lakeside mansion. Triplet peaks pierced the night sky. She recognized the A-frame structure from the negatives. How much larger it looked in real life, when she could step back and take in the whole picture. Snow dust fine as powder cocaine sifted off the banks and boughs, swirling and glittering around her. Before she could retrieve it from the back seat, Bennett slung her duffel bag over his shoulder and grabbed his roller case from the trunk. “I can—” Morgan started, but he waved her off.

“I got it,” he said.

“I’ll get the door,” she offered. In-ground lights illuminated a freshly snow-blown stone pathway, and Morgan wondered if the Reynolds family had landscapers up here, or if they drew fancy gold straws to decide who would take care of the walkway. She knocked twice and pushed the door open without waiting for an answer. A vast rotunda opened up before her. The sound of her boots on the hardwood floor echoed. A chandelier, made from antlers sawed off the skulls of twenty or more bucks, suspended from the ceiling’s zenith. Cedar beams crisscrossed above; overstuffed couches and chairs created a semicircle around a crackling fireplace. Across the room was a wall of windows that overlooked the lake. Here in the Reynoldses’ glass house, Morgan felt exposed, vulnerable, like an amoeba under a microscope.

Blake and Cora greeted them. Eleanor and Don followed in their wake, doling out one-armed hugs without letting go of their crystal stemware. Carlisle and David arrived together shortly after, and Morgan’s pulse quickened as she noticed David did not take his scarf off with his jacket. He kept it on over a tight black sweater, and when he caught her staring, she felt her cheeks burn.

They ate dinner—fancy shepherd’s pie with rosemary sprinkled on top, red wine, and a decadent Bailey’s cheesecake for dessert. Morgan wondered who made it. Perhaps there was kitchen staff off-site or down a separate wing. She didn’t think anyone in the family was a gourmet chef, and yet, she was learning that there was more to these people than meets the eye.

After dinner, when they all retired to sit near the fireplace, she watched each Reynolds character shed their skin. Blake had changed into pajamas, his T-shirt revealing fully inked sleeves on both arms. His pants were cinched at the ankles and the ends of tattoos poked out there, too. They must cover his entire body, she thought. Tendrils of ink climbed up past his collarbone creating wisps of ivy on his neck. Morgan wondered if that’s what the cashier had seen.