Betty POV
"Put the child down."
My own voice sounds thin. It rattles against the cold stone of the corridor like a dropped coin.
The man freezes. He is standing at the bottom of the grand staircase, his broad shoulders locking tight under a dark jacket. He does not turn around immediately. He just stiffens.
I don't know who he is. I don't know who I am.
The air in this place is thick, smelling of fresh pine, old wood, and something metallic that makes the back of my throat sting. Blood. It is everywhere on the lower landing, smeared in dark, wet drops across the polished floorboards.
"I said," I whisper, my fingers tightening on the wooden banister, "put it down."
The man turns slowly. He has a bundle wrapped in white wool pressed against his chest. A tiny, wrinkled hand punches out
