I nodded, smoothing down my skirt.

I walked to the door of his room and opened it slowly.

The hallway was dark, illuminated only by the faint security lights along the baseboards.

The air in the Thornton estate always felt cold, smelling of old wood, beeswax, and damp river air.

I slipped out and closed the door behind me until I heard the soft click of the latch.

My footsteps made no sound on the thick oriental runner.

I walked past the rows of oil portraits—dead Thorntons staring down with cold, judgmental eyes.

At the end of the gallery, the grand staircase wound down into the darkness of the foyer.

I held the mahogany banister, my palm sweating against the polished wood.

The house was silent, but it felt alive, like a beast waiting to swallow me whole.

I reached the ground floor and turned toward the east wing.

The library was at the very end of the corridor, past the formal dining room and the music room.

As I neared the door, my phone vibrated in my pocket again.

I pulled it out.