The storm reached Blackwater Bay shortly before midnight.
Waves struck the cliffs beneath Hawthorne House, exploding into white spray that rose almost as high as the stone terrace. Wind bent the old cypress trees toward the sea, and rain swept across the narrow coastal road in silver sheets.
Marcus Arden drove slowly through the iron gates.
On the passenger seat rested a wooden music box wrapped in dark blue paper.
It was not expensive, at least not by the standards of the house ahead of him. Marcus could have bought his daughter diamonds, rare toys, or anything else that money could place in a box. But the music box had been made by a craftsman in Prague, and when its lid opened, a tiny silver bird turned beneath a painted moon.
His daughter, Elara, loved birds.
Marcus had been away for twenty-three days.
A construction dispute in Singapore had become a legal crisis, and the legal crisis had turned into endless meetings. Every night, he had called home. Every night, his wife had told him that Elara was already asleep, studying, visiting a friend, or feeling too tired to speak.
He had believed her.
Now, looking at the dark silhouette of Hawthorne House, Marcus felt an uneasiness he could not explain.
Only three windows were illuminated.
One belonged to the master bedroom.
Another belonged to the kitchen.
The third glowed from the abandoned winter garden at the eastern end of the estate.
Marcus tightened his grip on the steering wheel.
The winter garden had been locked since his mother’s death.
No one was supposed to enter it.
He parked beneath the stone archway, left his suitcase in the car, and carried the music box through the rain.
The front door was unlocked.
That was the first thing that felt wrong.
The second was the silence.
No housekeeper appeared. No security officer greeted him. Even the old clock in the entrance hall had stopped.
Marcus removed his wet coat and listened.
At first, he heard nothing but the storm.
Then came a faint metallic sound from the eastern corridor.
Scrape.
Pause.
Scrape.
Marcus walked past the dark library and the portraits of generations who had lived in Hawthorne House before him. At the end of the corridor, a thin line of light shone beneath the winter garden door.
The brass handle turned beneath his hand.
Warm, damp air touched his face.
The winter garden had once been the most beautiful room on the coast. Its curved glass ceiling rose above marble paths, dry fountains, and beds where orchids had bloomed even in winter. Marcus’s mother had filled it with rare plants from every country she visited.
Now most of the glass panels were cracked. Dead vines hung from rusted frames. Rain leaked through the ceiling and collected in buckets across the floor.
In the center of the ruined garden, beneath a single work lamp, a child was kneeling beside a mosaic.
Marcus stopped breathing.
Elara wore a faded gray dress that did not belong to her. A heavy canvas apron hung from her narrow shoulders. Her dark hair had been tied back with a piece of string, and dirt covered both knees.
A small metal scraper trembled in her hand.
The mosaic beneath her had been hidden under decades of soil and broken tiles. She had uncovered part of a golden bird surrounded by blue glass stars.
Beside her stood a bucket filled with black water.
“Elara?”
The scraper fell from her fingers.
She turned.
For one terrible second, she looked afraid of him.
Then recognition reached her eyes.
“Dad?”
Marcus set the wrapped music box on a stone bench.
“What are you doing here?”
Elara rose too quickly and nearly lost her balance.
“I was told to finish before morning.”
“Told by whom?”
She looked toward the doorway behind him.
High heels sounded in the corridor.
Sabine appeared beneath the arch.
Marcus’s wife wore an ivory dressing gown and held a telephone in one hand. Her pale hair was perfectly arranged, although it was nearly midnight. She stared at Marcus, then at the unopened gift on the bench.
“You weren’t expected until Friday,” she said.
“My meetings ended early.”
“You should have called.”
“I wanted to surprise Elara.”
Sabine’s expression softened into the careful smile she used at charity dinners.
“And you have.”
Marcus looked at the bucket, the scraper, and his daughter’s dirty hands.
“Why is she working in here?”
Sabine stepped into the winter garden.
“She damaged something valuable.”
“What did she damage?”
“One of your mother’s ceramic planters.”
Elara shook her head.
“I didn’t.”
Sabine’s smile disappeared.
“We have already discussed lying.”
Marcus moved closer to his daughter. A strip of cloth had been wrapped around Elara’s left palm.
“What happened to your hand?”
“It’s nothing.”
He gently took her wrist.
The cloth was damp.