“I was under the bed,” I whispered against his shoulder. “I heard everything.”
His arms tightened around me.
Rebecca approached slowly, her expression controlled but her eyes bright with anger.
“Do you still have the recording?” she asked.
I nodded.
“Good,” she said. “Then we start with facts.”
That was Rebecca. No panic. No theatrics. Just facts, procedure, protection.
Inside, the house smelled faintly of cedarwood and chamomile tea. Someone had already lit the fireplace in the smaller sitting room, the one my mother used to call the winter room. It had sage-green walls, old bookshelves, and a painting of the coastline above the mantel. I used to sit there as a teenager while my mother reviewed charity proposals, pretending not to listen while she taught me how to read people.
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