From somewhere deep in the west wing, a floorboard creaked.

It was followed by the distinct, heavy slide of a bolt action.

Someone was loading a rifle.

Lorenzo’s grip on the banister tightened until his knuckles turned white.

He reached into his inner jacket pocket and pulled out a small, black revolver.

I did not even know he was carrying it.

“If anything happens,” Lorenzo whispered, his dark eyes locking onto mine in the moonlight.

“You take Leo and you run through the kitchen gardens.”

“There is a loose iron grate near the greenhouse.”

“Do you understand me, Hunter?”

“I understand,” I whispered, my throat tight.

We ascended the stairs slowly, step by step, avoiding the creaky wooden edges.

We reached the kitchen hallway.

The massive copper pots hanging from the ceiling gleamed in the moonlight.

Everything was in its place, yet the silence felt wrong.

The usual hum of the refrigerators and the security monitors was gone.

The mansion felt like a giant, sleeping beast that had been hollowed out.

We crept past the pantry and toward the long gallery.