Karen’s triumphant words died mid-sentence when the phone on the coffee table began ringing sharply, a cold metallic tone slicing through the fantasy she had just finished painting. The four people downstairs jolted slightly, each reacting in different ways: Jacob frowned in irritation, Karen brightened with hopeful nerves, Mara’s eyelashes fluttered with restrained excitement, and Hazel—upstairs—opened her eyes slowly in the darkness, listening.
Jacob grabbed the phone with a thick sigh, already annoyed at being interrupted. His voice was sharp, impatient, and filled with the tone he reserved for people he believed beneath him.
“Hello. Who is this.”
A brief silence hummed on the line, followed by a polite, steady voice.
“Hello, is this Mr. Owen. I am the steward of Wesley Garden.”
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