Three little girls had no idea that one innocent sentence was about to shatter everything I believed about my past.

Mercer Island was shrouded in dense coastal fog when I arrived the following morning. The Pines Estate sat behind a twelve-foot wrought-iron fence topped with security cameras and surrounded by ancient cedar trees.

I parked my sedan three blocks away and approached on foot. The iron gates were locked, but through the vertical bars, I could see a winding cobblestone driveway leading toward a grand limestone mansion overlooking the gray waters of Puget Sound.

I knew walking up to the front gate and ringing the bell would get me removed by armed security before I could utter a sentence. I needed a reason to be there.

Opportunity presented itself an hour later when a commercial delivery van pulled up to the service gate. The driver stepped out to hand a clipboard to the security guard inside the gatehouse. While they were distracted checking paperwork, I slipped quietly through the side pedestrian gate that had been left unlatched.

I kept low, sticking to the shadow of the thick rhododendron bushes lining the perimeter. The air smelled of wet pine needles and ocean salt. My heart hammered against my ribs with every step.

Following the sound of faint laughter, I skirted the West wing of the estate until I reached a expansive manicured lawn bordered by a stone terrace.

There, sitting on a wooden bench under the canopy of a weeping willow tree, was Camila.

She was dressed in a simple cream cardigan, her hair pulled back into a loose knot. She looked slender, delicate, yet impossibly graceful. Next to her, the three little girls were picking fallen autumn leaves and placing them into a small woven basket.

Seeing her in the flesh after nearly a decade made my knees tremble. The memories flooded back all at once—her laugh echoing over the sound of rain on a diner window, the warmth of her hand in mine, the smell of coffee and rain on her coat.