The night air of Oakwood Manor was still and heavy, scented with the expensive fertilizer of manicured lawns and the distant, metallic tang of the Greyvein river. Ambrose Ward stood at the threshold of Villa 7, his silhouette a sharp contrast against the amber glow of the porch light. Beside him, Victor Sinclair adjusted his spectacles, his face a mask of practiced, professional severity.
"Director Sinclair," Ambrose said, his voice a low, focused hum that cut through the chirping of crickets. "It’s time to see if the 'willow' was telling the truth."
Victor didn't hesitate. He stepped forward, reaching into the breast pocket of his charcoal suit to produce a leather-bound folder. As the young woman, Rosie, tried to shrink back into the shadows of the foyer, Victor flipped the folder open
