The mansion was too quiet.

Annabelle paced the length of the room, her bare feet sinking into the plush carpet with each step.

The faint tick of a grandfather clock in the hallway marked the time that seemed to drag endlessly, its monotonous rhythm grating against her frayed nerves.

She had tried to sit still to focus on Cathy, but her mind refused to settle.

Earlier, she’d cornered one of Dante’s men near the dining room, desperate for information.

“Where is Dante?” she had asked, her voice trembling despite her best efforts to appear calm.

The man’s expression had been carefully blank. “He’s not here at the moment, ma'am."

Her...