2The scream did not come from the dead woman’s sister.

The grand marble staircase of the Westwood estate had always felt like a monument to cold power, but as Adrian walked up it, every step felt like crushing glass beneath his boots.

Behind him came the faint sound of small feet. Emma held her mother’s hand tightly, her small canvas shoes silent against the thick runner carpet. Rachel Bennett’s eyes were wide, filled with a mixture of terror for her job and a fierce, maternal resolve. Beside them walked Natalie, her face pale, her hands trembling so violently she had to cross her arms to hide it.

“Adrian!” Margaret’s voice boomed from the base of the staircase, echoing off the high frescoed ceilings. “Stop this instant! You are humiliating this entire family in front of the city’s most prominent citizens!”

Adrian didn’t turn around. “If you step foot on these stairs, Mother, security will escort you out of your own charity gala.”

A sharp gasp went through the crowd remaining in the foyer. Margaret stayed where she was, her face rigid with fury and embarrassment.

Madison had not moved from her spot near the grand piano downstairs, but her eyes followed Adrian up the landing. She was still clutching her purse in one hand, her thumb moving with frantic speed across her smartphone screen.

“Natalie,” Adrian called down without looking back. “Take Madison’s phone.”

“What?” Madison took a step backward, her midnight-blue silk gown rustling against the polished floor. “Adrian, this is harassment!”

Before Madison could react, Natalie turned on her heel, descended three stairs, and ripped the phone straight out of Madison’s hands. Madison lunged forward to grab it back, but two heavy-set security guards—men who had served Adrian’s late father for decades—stepped smoothly between them.

“Bring it up,” Adrian ordered coldly.

They reached the third floor. The East Wing was quiet, bathed in the dim amber light of vintage wall sconces. At the end of the long hallway stood a pair of heavy oak doors, carved with intricate floral filigree. They had been locked for three years. The air here was cool, smelling faintly of old rosewood, lavender dust, and forgotten time.

Adrian pulled a silver master key from his inner coat pocket. His hand hesitated for half a second before he inserted it into the brass lock.

Click.

The lock turned with a heavy, metallic thud. Adrian pushed the doors open.

Inside, Claire’s master suite sat frozen in time. The vanity table was untouched; silver-backed brushes sat beside crystal perfume bottles covered in a fine layer of dust. The vast canopy bed was made with pristine white linens.

Emma pulled away from her mother and walked straight past the velvet armchairs toward the far wall of the dressing room. She stopped in front of the custom floor-to-ceiling shoe racks and mahogany dress wardrobes.

“Here,” Emma pointed her tiny index finger toward a long row of dark silk dresses.

Adrian stepped forward. He reached into the wardrobe, pulling aside heavy designer gowns that still held the faint, ghostly scent of jasmine—Claire’s signature perfume.

Behind the third row of coats, built into the structural cedar lining of the closet wall, was the hidden panel.

It was slightly ajar.

A fraction of an inch of shadow showed where the wood should have sat flush against the frame.

Adrian felt a cold tremor run down his spine. He put his fingers against the lip of the cedar board and pulled. The hidden door slid open with a soft, mechanical hiss.