Instead, he placed a small, faded square of photo paper on the table.

I leaned closer, my eyes widening.

It was an old, creased photograph of a young girl with bright green eyes, standing next to a tall man in a dark coat.

The girl in the photo was me, taken twenty years ago.

Vincent looked from the photo up to my face.

My phone suddenly buzzed in my pocket, the screen lighting up.

I pulled it out with a trembling hand, the cold glass slipping against my skin.

The screen showed a text from an unknown number.

I read the words: *I see you, Clara. He can’t keep you in his cage forever.*

My breath caught in my throat, and I almost dropped the device.

Vincent reached over, his large hand wrapping around mine to steady me.

He gently took the phone from my fingers and looked at the glowing screen.

His gray eyes darkened, the muscles in his jaw shifting as he read the threat.

“We are leaving,” Vincent said, his voice flat and dangerous.

He dropped the phone onto the wooden table, then stood up in one fluid motion.