“I do, Hunter,” he whispered. “I’m sorry. I didn’t want it to go this far.”

“Then help me now,” I said, pointing slightly toward the dripping condensation on the windowpane.

“There is a first-aid kit in the service cabinet by the outer sill.”

“Get it for me, and we can stop the bleeding.”

Evan’s eyes shifted toward the window, his body shifting slightly away from the wardrobe.

I felt the brass handle of the service door brushing against my skirt.

The phone on the table flashed again, the light casting a long shadow across Julian’s face.

I pressed my index finger against the small brass lever hidden behind the curtain rail.

The latch clicked. It was a tiny, metallic sound, barely louder than the dripping rain outside.

A gust of cold, stagnant air rushed out from the narrow service shaft.

It smelled of old brick, damp mortar, and dry rot.

Evan stiffened, his head snapping toward the dark opening behind the heavy wardrobe.

“What was that?” he whispered, his grip tightening on the scalpel.

“The old house breaths,” I said, my voice steady despite the hammer of my pulse.