It smelled of dust, iron, and something older than the house itself.
Elena screamed.
Her shriek tore through the kitchen and echoed down the opening until it sounded as though another woman were screaming beneath us.
Adrian barely reacted.
“That,” he said quietly, “is why your grandmother insisted this house could never be placed in your husband’s name.”
Julian stared into the darkness.
“There’s a basement?”
“No,” Adrian replied. “There’s evidence.”
Beatrice lunged for the door.
Two men in dark suits stepped through it before she could escape.
They were followed by a woman carrying a leather briefcase. I recognized her immediately.
Marian Holt, senior counsel for the Vale Preservation Trust.
She nodded to me.
“Mrs. Mercer.”
“Ms. Vale,” I corrected.
Julian flinched at the name.
Marian placed her briefcase on the counter and removed a stack of documents.
