The heavy front door had barely clicked shut when the air inside the mansion shifted. The silence that followed Mike’s departure was thick—too thick. Cynthia, upstairs in the guest room-turned-wife’s quarters, had just finished brushing her hair. She hadn’t dared step downstairs while Mike was around, but now, the air felt different.

Colder.

She felt it in her bones.

Still, she knew she couldn’t hide in her room all day. Her stomach growled with hunger, but more than that, her instincts warned her that avoiding the storm wouldn’t make it disappear. She needed to go downstairs. Face whatever needed facing.

She stepped into her slippers, adjusted her simple robe, and...