as a child.
Lila stood beside a rosebush, one hand resting on the shoulder of a little girl.
Claire.
But Claire was not six in the photograph.
She was older.
Maybe nine.
The back of the frame held three words in Eleanor’s handwriting.
Lila is alive.
Mabel began to cry.
Claire stared at the image until her vision blurred.
Then she noticed the dust on the floor.
Fresh footprints crossed it.
Not hers.
Not Mabel’s.
Someone else had been inside the chamber recently.
Claire followed the prints around the table to the far wall, where one shelf had been shifted aside. Behind it, almost hidden, was a narrow passage leading into darkness.
Mabel saw it and grabbed Claire’s arm.
No.
Claire’s flashlight beam trembled over the opening.
On the floor just inside the passage lay a folded note.
Claire picked it up.
The handwriting was unfamiliar.
Your mother has been waiting for you.
Come alone tonight.
Under the oldest rose.
Mabel whispered, It is a trap.
Maybe, Claire said.
She turned toward the passage, and that was when she heard it.
A woman’s voice.
Faint. Shaking. Impossible.
Claire.
The sound came from deep beneath the garden.
Mabel’s hand tightened around hers.
Claire did not move, because suddenly she understood the terrible shape of the life Eleanor had built for her. Every silence, every locked door, every cruel refusal to answer had been part of a wall. Not to keep Claire trapped.
To keep something else out.
Above them, somewhere in the house, a door slammed.
Footsteps crossed the kitchen.
Daniel Voss had come back.
And this time, he was not knocking.
