But as he crossed the marble foyer beneath the endless glitter of the chandelier, he heard something impossible.
A sound.
Light.
Alive.
His body reacted before his mind did. His hand slipped beneath his coat, resting on the cold weight of the pistol at his ribs.
The sound came again.
Not breaking glass. Not raised voices.
Music.
Soft at first, hesitant, as if testing whether the walls would allow it. Then stronger.
And woven through it—
Laughter.
Adrian’s pulse climbed hard into his throat.
He moved down the corridor in instinctive silence, passing the study where he’d signed off on deaths with the same pen used for charity checks. He passed the staircase where for fourteen months three small girls had stood like ghosts with matching curls and empty eyes.
The sound drew him toward the kitchen.
His fingers tightened around the gun grip.
What kind of threat sang?
He reached the door. The brass handle was warm.
His hand trembled.
He pushed it open.
Golden afternoon light poured across granite counters and oak cabinetry. Dust shimmered like falling sparks. And in the center of it—
The impossible.
Three little girls sat on the kitchen island, legs swinging, cheeks pink, voices tangled but determined.