“Lila?” I cried out.

There was no child’s voice this time.

Only the sound of heavy, rhythmic breathing.

“You’re looking in the wrong direction, Adrian,” a voice said.

It wasn’t Caleb.

It was a woman’s voice, low and sharp.

“Elena?” I whispered.

The call ended.

The phone went completely black.

I stood on the threshold of the great house, the cold Hudson Valley wind hitting my face.

Daniel was already halfway down the stone steps, looking back at me.

“Adrian, we have to move!” he shouted.

But I couldn’t move.

The voice on the phone had been Elena’s.

And she was supposed to be dead.

“Adrian, we have to move!” Daniel shouted again.

His voice cut through the freezing fog rolling off the Hudson.

I forced my legs to move down the stone steps.

“She’s alive,” I muttered, my boots crunching on the gravel.

Daniel stopped, his brow furrowed in the dim light of the carriage lamps.

“Who is alive?” he asked.

“Elena,” I said.

He stared at me as if I had lost my mind.

“Elena died in the river three months ago, Adrian,” he said.