The Cascades estate at night had the quality of a place that was used to holding secrets.
Not dramatic — not the gothic architecture of something designed to be forbidding. Just old. The specific oldness of a property that had been in the same family for generations and had accumulated, through that continuity, the weight of everything that had happened inside it. Stone that had heard things. Walls that held what they had been told.
Cole had made calls on the drive.
The territorial review board — the body overseeing Riven's containment — had authority over the estate. The warrant was in place by the time we arrived. The two review board representatives met us at the gate with the specific professional wariness of officials who had been called out at an odd hour and understood that the r
