We reached the heavy iron door that led to the service stairs and Lorenzo pushed it open with his shoulder.

The stairwell was dark, the emergency lights casting a faint, amber glow over the concrete steps.

“How long has Halloran been paying you?” Lorenzo whispered as we climbed, his voice tight with exertion.

“Julian is a perfectionist,” Evan sneered, his voice echoing in the narrow shaft. “But he lacks vision. He just wanted to study the child’s reactions.”

“And you?” I asked, keeping my eyes on the landing above us.

“I saw an opportunity,” Evan said. “A grieving billionaire is a very generous donor when his only heir is failing to thrive.”

We reached the first-floor landing, the heavy wooden door leading to the main corridor standing slightly ajar.

A draft of cold air blew through the crack, carrying the scent of rain and wet stone from the gardens outside.

The security panels along the walls were dark, their small digital screens blanked out by the system override.

“The whole house is offline,” I murmured, looking at the dead keypad by the pantry door.