“Are you ready?” I asked.

Eleanor nodded, her chin set in a firm line.

She looked smaller in the dim light of the dashboard, but there was a stiffness in her shoulders I had not seen in years.

We got out of the car, shutting the doors with soft, controlled clicks.

The air was cold, carrying the sharp scent of pine and salt water.

We walked toward the stone archway of the carriage house.

A rusty iron gate blocked the entrance, but the padlock hung open, choked with dead ivy.

Eleanor pushed the gate.

It groaned, a high-pitched scrape of metal that made me freeze in place.

We waited, listening to the wind.

Only the rustle of dry leaves answered.

“This way,” Eleanor whispered.

She led me through the dark interior of the carriage house.

Dust motes danced in the faint light filtering through the cracked skylight overhead.

An old wooden cart, its wheels rotted away, sat in the corner like a skeleton.

We reached the back door, which opened onto the neglected edge of the formal gardens.