The tires spun on the wet gravel as Alden accelerated up the driveway.

The headlights cut through the dark, illuminating the ancient oaks that lined the path.

The wind howled through the branches, sending showers of dead leaves against the windshield.

We pulled up to the front circle of the stone manor.

A black Mercedes SUV was parked near the front steps, its engine idling.

“That’s Celeste’s car,” I said.

“She’s already here,” Alden said.

I opened the passenger door and stepped out into the cold rain.

My boots splashed through a deep puddle as I ran up the stone steps.

The heavy oak front door was unlocked.

I pushed it open and stepped into the grand foyer.

The smell of damp wool and floor wax filled the air.

Celeste was standing near the fireplace in the parlor, a glass of sherry in her hand.

She looked immaculate, her blonde hair styled perfectly despite the storm.

Beside her stood a tall man in a dark gray suit, holding a leather briefcase.

“Clara,” Celeste said, her voice smooth and devoid of warmth. “We were wondering when you’d get back.”