“I’ll be right back,” he said.

He followed Holt into the darkness of the stairwell, their figures disappearing into the shadows.

The silence that followed was suffocating.

I could hear Beatrice’s ragged breathing beside me.

“This is your doing,” she muttered, her voice trembling with rage. “You couldn’t just let the past stay dead.”

“You tried to kill me, Aunt Beatrice,” I said, turning to face her.

“The fire was an accident,” she lied, though she couldn’t look me in the eye.

“You locked the office doors from the outside,” I said. “I found the melted padlock in the ruins years ago. The police have it now.”

She remained silent, her fingers twitching against her expensive coat.

The officer stood near us, his eyes scanning the entryways, his hand resting on his holster.

Above us, the floorboards creaked again.

It sounded like a slow, deliberate struggle was taking place directly overhead.

I looked at the ceiling, watching dust drift down through the gaps in the charred wood.

A drop of cold water fell from a leaky pipe, hitting my shoulder.

I shivered, pulling my jacket tighter around myself.