Then, the small television mounted on the wall opposite my bed flickered.

It was muted, but the screen suddenly changed from a local commercial to a breaking news graphic.

Underneath the bright red banner, a headline appeared in bold black letters.

The screen showed a photograph of the Whitmore estate gates.

Beside it was a picture of Daniel, taken at a charity gala three years ago.

And beneath his picture, in smaller font, was my own name.

Daniel turned his head slowly to look at the screen.

His phone began to ring again in his hand, the vibration making a dry, buzzing sound against his palm.

“Claire,” Daniel said softly.

He was sitting beside me again, his hand resting on my shoulder.

“I’m going to call Ruth,” he said. “She needs to prepare the west wing. It’s the most private part of the house.”

“Ruth will have questions,” I murmured.

“Ruth already knows more than she lets on,” Daniel said. “She has kept our secrets for twelve years. She will know what to do.”

He pulled his phone back out, his thumb tapping the screen.