The words seemed to chill the air inside the car.

“What is it, Natalie?” my mother asked.

She was watching my face, her fingers gripping the edge of her seat.

I handed her the phone without a word.

She squinted at the screen, her lips parting slightly as she read the text.

“Who sent this?” she asked, her voice trembling.

“I don’t know,” I said. “But we aren’t turning back now.”

I put the phone back in the center console and shifted the car into drive.

The heavy iron gates of the Richards estate loomed ahead, still closed.

As we drew closer, the gates began to swing open with a low, metallic groan.

I drove the car through the entrance and onto the long gravel driveway.

Tall cypress trees stood on either side, their branches swaying in the rising wind.

The air from the ocean was turning colder, carrying the scent of salt and wet pine.

At the end of the driveway, the main house sat like a fortress of white stone.

Two black SUVs were parked near the grand double doors of the front entrance.