“Why is our little city girl Lena all bundled up?” Garrett thundered, fixing Lena with a heavy stare. She was wearing a thick autumn jacket and jeans. The day was cool, and a sharp wind blew off the lake. “Afraid of catching a cold, softy?”

Lena smiled nervously. “It’s just windy, Mr. Garrett.”

“Windy?” Preston scoffed, mimicking his father. “Back in my day, girls were swimming in October, and it did them good. They were tough. This is a greenhouse generation.”

I felt a cold dread settling inside me. I didn’t like this conversation. It was like sharpening a knife—slow, methodical, full of anticipation.