The storm rolled in fast, as if it had been waiting behind the hills for the perfect moment to strike. Lightning crackled over the sweeping fields of Lyndhurst, illuminating the estate in stark flashes. Nora had never felt the house so alive—alive with fear, memory, and the ghosts that refused to stay buried.
Sasha’s footsteps had vanished somewhere deep in the western wing. The oldest part of the estate. The part with the fewest lights. The part where the cold always seemed to settle like an unwelcome guest.
Demetri stood perfectly still beside the cold fireplace, his face a storm of its own. His eyes—usually sharp, controlled—were distant, unfocused. Like he wasn’t seeing the room. Like he was seeing his father.
Nora broke the silence first.
“I’ll go to her,” she said gently.
But De
