I had left her with a coloring book and some crackers, telling her to stay inside where it was warm.

But as I reached the gravel path, I heard the sound of a heavy engine.

A long, black town car was rolling slowly up the driveway, its tires crunching on the fresh snow.

I froze near the side entrance of the mansion, half-hidden by the stone pillar.

The car stopped at the front steps.

The driver got out and opened the rear door.

A woman stepped out, wrapped in a white fur coat that practically glowed against the gray morning.

Vanessa Whitmore.

She did not look at the beautiful limestone arches of Mercer House.

She looked down at her leather boots, her face twisted in immediate annoyance.

“This place is freezing,” she complained loudly to the driver.

Before he could grab her bags, she marched up the stone steps.

I shrank back into the shadows of the side door, hoping to slip away unnoticed.

But then I heard a sound that made my blood run cold.

It was a high-pitched, happy laugh.