A floorboard groaned right beside me.

He stopped.

“Claire?” he said, his voice sharp now.

He stepped toward the curtains.

I knew I could not hide any longer, and I did not want him to find me cowering.

I stepped out from behind the velvet, my face composed and cold.

“Are you looking for me, Graham?” I asked.

He jumped, his flashlight beam blinding me for a split second before he lowered it to the floor.

“Jesus, Claire,” he breathed, clutching his chest. “You scared the hell out of me.”

“You seem jumpy,” I said.

I kept my hands buried deep in my coat pockets, my fingers tightly gripping my mother’s letter and the heavy brass key.

“What are you doing here in the dark?” he asked, stepping closer.

His eyes searched my face, looking for any sign of what I had discovered.

“I came to get some of Mother’s personal things,” I said. “The house feels empty without her, and I needed to be close to her memory.”

“You should have told me you were coming,” he said, his voice softening into that false warmth he used when he wanted something.