Cold rain swept into the foyer, dampening the polished hardwood floor.

Marco came in first, his leather jacket slick with water.

Behind him was a frail woman wearing a faded yellow raincoat.

She looked around the grand entryway with wide, terrified eyes.

Her hands were shaking so hard she could barely keep her hood pulled back.

“This is Clara Vale,” Marco said, stepping aside.

“You are safe here, Clara,” I said, stepping forward to take her wet coat.

She shrank back slightly, her gaze darting toward the stairs.

“Where are they?” Clara whispered. “Where are the babies?”

“They are upstairs, sleeping,” I said gently. “They are safe, I promise.”

Ryker closed the front door, shutting out the howling wind.

“Let’s go into the kitchen,” Ryker said. “It is warm in there.”

We walked down the long hallway, our footsteps echoing on the stone tile.

Clara walked slowly, her shoulders hunched as if she expected someone to strike her.

I filled the kettle and set it on the stove, needing something to do with my hands.

Ryker pulled out a chair at the kitchen island for Clara.