“He’ll need more later,” she said softly.
Jonathan looked at her again, his voice no longer angry.
“Who are you?”
“My name is Emma.”
“And where did you get that?”
Emma didn’t answer.
Instead she looked at Caleb kindly.
“You’re strong,” she said. “That’s why it worked.”
Before Jonathan could ask another question, she slipped through a small gap in the tall hedge surrounding the garden.
By the time he reached it, she was gone.
The city beyond the mansion walls swallowed her completely.
That night, Jonathan didn’t sleep.
He sat in his office staring into the darkness, a glass of whiskey untouched in his hand.
Two years earlier, the accident had taken everything.
His wife Margaret Whitmore had died instantly when the car crashed.
Caleb had survived.
But the damage to his spine had left him paralyzed.
Since that day, the mansion had felt like an empty museum of memories.
Fourteen rooms.
And only silence.
Now something impossible had happened.
The next morning Jonathan rushed Caleb to his neurologist.
The doctor studied the scans for nearly twenty minutes without speaking.
Finally he frowned.
“This doesn’t make sense.”
Jonathan leaned forward.
“What doesn’t?”