CHAPTER 209 A Salinas

*Sloane*

The garden swelled with the wild poetry of spring. Peonies, the color of bruised dusk, spilled from old stone urns, their petals trembling in the breeze like secrets waiting to be spilled. Tulips nodded in elegant clusters, their hues singing in the sunlight—blood red, bone white, sunshine yellow—while jasmine threaded its scent through the air like a spell. The lawn was aglow, bathed in