Present Day
Eliza
Her mother lived in a Victorian house that had belonged to the Warren family for four generations. The building rose from its corner lot like something out of a nightmare. Steep gables and shadowed porches gave it character, all painted deep burgundy with black trim that seemed to swallow the afternoon light. Eliza had grown up in those rooms, where every creaking floorboard told a story and every photograph stared back with eyes that never looked friendly.
Eyes like her own.
Katherine Warren opened the door on the first knock, like she'd been watching the street. At fifty-eight, she still had that restless energy Eliza remembered from childhood. Pacing kitchens at midnight, checking locks that were already latched, moving furniture that didn't need moving. But today
