The house was quiet again. Just the ticking of the kitchen clock and the low hum of the fridge.
Then -- crying. Upstairs.
Leo.
And soft steps. Not mine.
I stayed still, listening.
Clara was already up there. I could hear her voice, calm and rhythmic, soothing him. Like a damn mother.
I stood, walked toward the hallway, barefoot on hardwood.
Passed the front door.
Paused.
Opened it quickly.
Nobody there.
Just air, and the flowerpot by the railing.
Still.
I shut it and told myself to stop being paranoid.
Victor would be here tonight.
And I had better things to think about.
Evening fell slow and warm. The lights downstairs were dim, the air smelled like lemon cleaner and candle wax. I changed into a black lace set under a sheer robe and padded barefoot through the house, loose
