My shoes crunch on the crushed-shell driveway as I begin walking.
Each step feels loud, not because it is, but because my body is used to sneaking. Used to avoiding. Used to making myself small.
But I’m not small today.
The sound of my footsteps carries.
Kyle, standing on the deck with a beer, turns first. He squints, confused. He doesn’t recognize me immediately. The sun backlights me, turning me into a silhouette.
Then his eyes widen.
“Skyla?”
His voice cracks slightly like he can’t believe I’m real.
The music stops abruptly. Someone inside must have noticed. Faces appear at windows.
Bridget rushes to the sliding glass door, phone still in her hand.
“What the hell?” she shouts, and her voice carries down the deck. “What are you doing here?”
I don’t answer.
I keep walking.
I climb the stairs to the main deck. The wood is warm under my feet, sun-soaked. I smell sunscreen, beer, and the faint salty edge of the ocean beyond the dunes.
Linda steps out from inside, wine glass in hand, her face already hard.
“Skyla,” she says sharply. “You need to leave. Right now. You are not welcome here. This is our vacation rental.”
I stop at the top of the stairs.
I look at each of them in turn.
My father frozen by the sofa, beer halfway raised. Kyle blinking like he’s trying to compute. Bridget holding her phone like a weapon, fingers trembling. Linda standing in her caftan with a wine glass like a scepter.
“My vacation rental,” I repeat slowly.
Linda’s chin lifts. “Yes,” she snaps. “I rented it. I pulled strings. We are here for a drama-free reunion, and you are not invited.”
I open the folder and pull out the deed.
The paper feels crisp under my fingers.
I hold it up.
“This is the deed to 42 Dune Grass Lane,” I say calmly. “It is registered to Seaglass Harbor Holdings LLC.”
Bridget laughs, brittle. “Oh my God. Are you serious? You can’t just print something and pretend you own the place.”
“I am the sole owner of that LLC,” I continue, voice steady. “I bought this property two years ago. I renovated it. I set the code you used to enter. And you are trespassing.”
For the first time, Linda’s confidence flickers.
Her mouth opens slightly.
Then she snaps it shut.
“That’s impossible,” she says, but her voice has lost its edge. “I spoke to property management. They confirmed the booking.”
“You spoke to maintenance,” I say. “They do not rent this property. They made an error. Or you misrepresented yourself. Either way, you do not have permission to be here.”
My father stands slowly, hands lifted slightly like he’s approaching a frightened animal. “Skyla,” he says, voice pleading. “Sweetheart. There must be a misunderstanding. We can figure this out.”
“There is no misunderstanding,” I say, and my calm scares me a little because I’ve never heard it in my own voice like this. “You banned me. You removed me from the group chat. You told everyone not to give me the address. And then you came here anyway.”
I look at Linda.
“You used my birthday to enter my house,” I say softly.
Something flashes in her eyes then. Not guilt. Not shame.
Fear.
The sound of tires on gravel interrupts the moment. Vehicles pull into the driveway.
Two sheriff SUVs.
A Tidemark sedan.
Car doors slam. Footsteps crunch. Voices murmur.
A deputy appears on the deck, hand resting on his belt. He looks between us quickly, reading the scene. “We got a call about unauthorized entry,” he says. “Who’s the property owner?”
I raise my hand. “That would be me,” I say. “Skyla Morales.”
The deputy’s gaze sharpens. “Ma’am, do you have documentation?”
I hand him the deed.
He studies it, then nods.
He turns to my family. His voice is polite but firm. “Folks, you need to gather your belongings and vacate the premises immediately. If you believe you have a rental agreement, that’s a civil issue you can pursue later, but right now the owner is requesting you leave.”
Linda’s face drains of color. “But we have a code,” she protests weakly.
“That doesn’t matter,” the deputy says. “You’re on private property without consent.”
Bridget’s eyes are wide, wet with furious tears. Kyle looks like he might drop his beer. My father stares at the floor.
Linda looks at me like I’ve committed a crime against her.
They scramble.
Coolers dragged back down the stairs. Suitcases hauled. Food bags stuffed into trunks. They move like startled animals, chaotic and embarrassed. Deputies stand by to ensure they don’t take anything that isn’t theirs.
Bridget tries to snatch one of my wine glasses as she passes through the kitchen. A deputy stops her with a quiet, stern look, and she flushes red, setting it down hard enough to make it clink.
My father moves slowly, shoulders heavy, as if each step costs him. He doesn’t speak. He doesn’t apologize in front of them. He doesn’t look at me.
Linda approaches me at the edge of the deck as if she needs the last word. Her eyes are red now, voice shaking with rage masked as pain.
“How could you do this to your own family?” she demands.
I look at her.
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