The salt air from the coast always made the hinges of the front door creak.

I pushed through the heavy oak entrance of the Reed estate.

The hallway smelled of lilies and damp wood.

Nobody met me at the foyer.

My boots clicked against the black marble floor.

I had just stepped off the transport plane from my deployment three hours ago.

My uniform was still stiff, the collar chafing against my neck.

In the center of the drawing room sat a polished mahogany casket.

It was closed.

I walked toward it, my chest tightening until I could barely breathe.

I reached out and lifted the heavy brass latch.

The lid swung open.

Emily lay inside, her skin the color of damp chalk.

Her lips were painted a bright red she had never worn in life.

My hand shook as I touched her cheek.

She was cold, frozen by the mortician’s chemicals.

“You shouldn’t be looking at her like that,” a voice said from the doorway.

I turned.

My mother, Margaret, stood there in a tailored black wool coat.

Her pearl necklace caught the dim light of the chandelier.

“The funeral home advised us to keep it closed, Daniel,” she said.

“Where is Leo?” I asked, my voice raw. “Where is my son?”

“The baby is safe with the nanny at the cottage,” Margaret said, stepping into the room.

My younger brother, Caleb, shuffled in behind her.

His eyes were bloodshot, and he kept his hands shoved deep into his pockets.

“Caleb,” I said. “You look like hell.”

“Just tired, Dan,” Caleb muttered, looking at the floor. “It’s been a rough week.”

“She was healthy when I spoke to her last week,” I said, looking back at the casket.

“Heart failure,” Margaret said, her voice smooth and devoid of cracks. “Dr. Vale confirmed it.”

“And Sheriff Wade?” I asked. “Did he look into this?”

“There was nothing to look into, Daniel,” Margaret said. “It was a tragic, sudden event.”

I looked back down at Emily.

Her hands were crossed over her chest.

Between her fingers, I noticed the silver compact mirror I had bought her for our anniversary.