PART 2

By Friday morning, Marissa had convinced half the family I was the villain.

My aunt Diane called first.

“Claire,” she sighed, using the same tone she reserved for funerals and personal disappointment, “would it really hurt you to share?”

“With twenty-three guests for two weeks?” I asked.

“She said you invited them.”

“She lied.”

There was a pause.

“Well,” Aunt Diane said, “maybe she misunderstood.”

That was always how things worked with Marissa. When I said no, I was cruel. When she lied, she had “misunderstood.” When she screamed, she was “stressed.” When I finally protected myself, I was “cold.”

So I stopped trying to explain.

Instead, I opened my laptop at the kitchen island and focused on practical steps.

First, I installed a keypad lock on the front door and changed the temporary contractor code. Then I called the local police non-emergency number and explained that family members might attempt to access my property without permission. The officer on the line was calm and straightforward.

“Do they have written permission to stay?”

“No.”

“Are they on the deed or lease?”

“No.”

“Then they don’t stay unless you allow it.”

Those words comforted me more than any family reassurance ever had.

Next, I printed three copies of a simple notice:

Private Property. No overnight guests without written permission of the homeowner. Unauthorized entry will be reported.

I taped one inside the front window, another on the back door, and slipped the third into my purse.

Then I called Denise Palmer.

Denise was my real estate agent, a sharp woman in her early fifties who had handled the closing with red lipstick, reading glasses, and the calm patience of a courtroom judge. When I told her what was happening, she did not sound surprised.

“Happens more than you’d think,” she said. “Beach houses bring out the vultures.”

“I don’t want drama.”

“Then don’t perform in their play,” Denise said. “Make rules. Enforce them.”

By noon, that was exactly what I had done.

I booked a small room at a nearby hotel for Friday night—not because I intended to give up my house, but because I wanted the porch cameras recording everything and enough distance to think without twenty-two angry strangers crowding my driveway.

At 4:13 p.m., the first SUV pulled in.

The security camera alert appeared on my phone while I sat in the hotel lobby with iced tea.

Marissa climbed out wearing oversized sunglasses and a white linen outfit, as if she were arriving at a resort. Behind her, Greg unloaded coolers, beach chairs, and duffel bags. Then another van arrived. Then a pickup truck. Then a minivan packed with children.

My sister marched to the front door and entered the old contractor code.

Nothing happened.

She tried again.

Still nothing.

She looked straight into the camera.

I answered through the speaker.

“Hi, Marissa.”

Her face changed instantly.

“Claire, open the door.”

“No.”

“Don’t embarrass me.”

“You did that yourself.”

Behind her, Greg’s mother called out, “What’s going on?”

Marissa forced a tight smile. “Technical issue!”

I watched her turn back toward the camera, teeth clenched.

“You’re going to regret this,” she whispered.

“No,” I said. “For once, I really don’t think I am.”