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EPILOGUE 2 KANE A YEAR LATER M y heartbeat is steady as I lurk in the shadows of my mother’s extravagant garden. No one is here. In the garden. Or the house. I dismissed the entire staff and security team after my mother went on an international trip for the mental health charity she’s now spending most of her time—and money—on. Dahlia doesn’t know that, though. She thinks we’re having a family dinner and is probably dolling herself up to look her best. But I have a surprise in store. The garden is cloaked in profound silence as I patiently wait. Snow blankets the ground, the white layers softening the contours of the stone lanterns and bridges, turning the sharp pond edges into gentle mounds. The bare branches of the cherry trees stretch toward the dusky sky, their bony figures etched against hues of deepening indigo and violet. Tires scrunch against the gravel in the distance before I hear her soft voice, low, barely audible in the wind as she probably thanks Samuel and interrogates