It was the shape of a woman sitting in a high-backed chair.

The posture was identical to Eleanor’s in the portraits that hung in the gallery.

“Is that… my mother?” Ethan whispered.

He had turned his head and was staring at the glowing screen.

His young face was filled with a painful, desperate hope.

“No, Ethan,” I said quickly, turning his face away.

“Do not look at it.”

It had to be a trick.

Celeste.

She was the only one calculating enough to orchestrate something like this.

She must have gained access to Eleanor’s old accounts to distract us.

She wanted to keep us in this room while the estate’s security system locked us down.

The fire was spreading to the heavy velvet curtains now.

The heat was becoming unbearable, pressing down on us like a physical weight.

The wooden beams above our heads began to groan.

I knew we had to move, but the exit was blocked by a wall of flame.

I looked around the burning study, my eyes stinging.

In the corner, near the private library shelves, was a small wet bar.