“Charles?” she called out, her voice sharp and echoing in the high ceiling.

There was no answer from upstairs, only the sound of heavy, dragging footsteps.

Victoria cursed under her breath and marched toward the doorway.

“Stay here,” she ordered me, pointing a manicured finger at my chest. “Don’t touch anything.”

As soon as her heels clicked onto the hardwood of the hallway, I moved.

My boots made no sound on the thick Persian rug.

I reached the portrait of Garrett.

He looked back at me from the oil canvas, his painted eyes steady and calm, just as they had been when we were seventeen.

My hands shook as I reached for the heavy gilded frame.

I gripped the bottom edge where the shadow lay deepest.

I pulled outward.

The painting didn’t swing freely; it resisted, creaking slightly on hidden brass hinges on the right side.

I pulled harder, my heart hammering against my ribs.

The frame swung open like a heavy cupboard door.

Behind it, set deep into the plaster and lath of the wall, was a dull gray iron box.