I bought my parents a $650,000 cottage by the ocean for their 40th anniversary so they could finally rest. A few months later, my mother called me sobbing because my sister’s husband had changed the locks, put the house up for short-term rent, and told my father, “Get out. This isn’t your home.”

“What has happened to you?” I asked as I stepped out into the bright city light.

“He changed the deadbolts,” she replied, and for a moment I genuinely could not process the meaning of those simple words.

My brain kept attempting to find a more logical explanation such as a broken lock or a misunderstanding with a local handyman or perhaps a security system malfunction.

“Who exactly changed the locks on your home?” I demanded as I reached my car and threw my briefcase into the passenger seat.

There was a long silence on the other end of the line before a shaky breath escaped her lungs.

“It was Chadwick,” she finally admitted, and the name alone caused a cold sensation to settle deep in my chest.

Forty five minutes later, I accelerated into the driveway far too quickly and sent gravel flying toward the stone wall where a group of gulls took flight in a frantic cloud of white wings.

Chadwick was leaning against the porch railing with his arms folded across his chest and a silver ring of keys dangling from one finger.

He gave the keys a small and lazy jingle that made the edges of my vision sharpen with a dangerous level of focus.