The rain was coming down like hell had finally opened. Wind lashed the trees lining the estate, and thunder rumbled low across the hills like a warning. Inside, everything was still. Too still.

Silas Morgan stood by the fireplace, one hand around a heavy crystal tumbler of bourbon, the other tucked into the pocket of his tailored slacks. The firelight cast flickering shadows across the sharp planes of his face—greying hair still damp from his run, shirt open at the throat, sleeves rolled. He wasn’t expecting company. He never did.

Then came the knock.

It wasn’t urgent, but it was off. And somehow, he knew. He crossed the marble floor slowly, drink still in hand, and opened the door to find her standing there, soaked to the bone, eyes red-rimmed, mouth trembling. Rain matted her hair to her face, and her coat barely clung to her shoulders.