The hallway was darker than the rest of the estate, as though light itself had learned not to trespass here. Dust hung in the air like a memory that refused to fade. Clara’s fingertips brushed along the peeling wallpaper, tracing the faded gold patterns that must have once glimmered in candlelight. Now, they looked like veins of something dead.She had walked this corridor before as a child, though her memories of it were faint—buried beneath the laughter of dinner parties, the distant hum of her father’s office, and the echo of heels across polished floors. But she remembered, faintly, a door at the very end. One her mother had always kept locked.That door now stood in front of her.It wasn’t ornate like the rest of the estate’s architecture. No gilded handle, no decorative frame. Just wood—aged and bowed slightly, as though it carried the weight of everything hidden behind it.She gripped the iron key she’d found two nights ago. It was cold against her palm, sharper than she expect

The rain was still falling by the time the clock on Damien’s kitchen wall struck midnight. The sound of it against the tall glass windows was almost hypnotic—if not for the weight of the folder sitting between them on the counter, daring them to open it again.Clara hadn’t moved from her stool. Her hands were wrapped around the mug of coffee he’d made her hours ago, now lukewarm. Damien, across from her, was leaning back against the counter, arms folded, studying her with the kind of focus that made her feel like he could read the thoughts she was trying not to think.“You’re still in shock,” he said finally.“I’m not,” she lied.“You are,” he countered, voice calm but sure. “It’s the same look I had when I first realized half the things I’d been told growing up were manufactured.”She didn’t answer right away. The rain filled the silence for them.“When I was younger,” she began slowly, “my mother used to tell me that the truth always came out eventually. That no one could bury it fo

The phone still rang in Clara’s hand, its tremor vibrating through her fingers as if the device itself were shivering. Damien’s eyes were fixed on her, steady but shadowed, the kind of gaze that felt like a locked door—hearing everything, revealing nothing.“Answer it,” he said quietly.The command wasn’t sharp, but it was firm enough to root her to the moment. She slid her thumb across the screen, pressing it to her ear.“Clara Sterling,” the voice on the other end said—hoarse, breathless, as though speaking from the bottom of a well. “You don’t know me. But you knew my sister.”Clara’s throat tightened. “Who is this?”A pause. Then a rasp. “Marissa Rowe.”The name lodged itself in her chest like a splinter. Rowe. She had seen it—scribbled in the margins of one of her mother’s journals, next to a date circled in red. She had never asked about it; her mother had been in one of her moods that day, the kind where questions were only met with silence.“I think you’re looking for her,” th

The rain had slowed to a gentle drizzle, the kind that whispered against rooftops instead of roaring against them. Clara stood on the edge of the alley, her fingers curled tight into the folds of her coat. Lanterns flickered in the narrow street, throwing trembling shadows against the walls. The night smelled faintly of wet earth and old wood — the kind of smell that carried memories she didn’t want to remember.Damien was leaning against the far wall, his head slightly tilted as he looked at her. That intense, unreadable gaze had returned, the one that made her feel as though he could peel back her words and read the truth beneath them.“You came,” he said quietly.She forced her voice steady. “You asked.”“I didn’t think you would.” His eyes held hers, but there was something softer at the edges now — something like relief, or maybe regret.Clara took a slow step toward him. The sound of her shoes against the damp cobblestone seemed too loud in the silence. “You’ve been avoiding me.

The moment Damien’s footsteps faded, the silence in the room became suffocating. Clara pressed her back against the heavy desk, every muscle in her body braced for the sound of breaking glass or a gunshot. The letter in her hand felt like a live wire — one wrong move, and it would burn her.She strained to hear through the walls. Somewhere below, a door creaked. Then, faint voices — muffled, careful, too far away to make out the words. She didn’t realize she was holding her breath until her lungs began to ache.Her eyes flicked to the photographs scattered across the desk. Her face stared back at her from half a dozen different angles, frozen moments stolen without her knowledge. The earlier anger returned, curling hot in her chest, but now it was tangled with something sharper: fear. Damien had known about the threat for years. He’d known her mother’s death wasn’t the end of it. And yet, here she was — trapped in the same house as whoever was creeping through the trees.A floorboard