He checked the living room, then the kitchen. Only the refrigerator hummed. Then he heard it.
Crying.
Not a child’s brief tantrum, but the raw, broken sobs of someone who had cried until their voice gave out. Panic surged.
The sound wasn’t inside the house. It came from beyond the pool, past the rose garden, toward the old service building his mother, Margaret Reed, insisted on keeping.
Michael ran, shoes tearing through grass as the sobs sharpened. “Sophia!” he shouted.
The door to the building was locked from the outside. Rage exploded through him. He smashed the rusted latch and kicked the door open.
Inside was an old bathroom, tiles cracked and blackened with mold. The air smelled of damp rot. Weak light filtered through a filthy window. On the cold floor sat Sophia, six years old, knees hugged tight, shaking. Her pink dress was smeared with dirt and tears.
Scattered around her were torn drawings—her drawings—crumpled and stomped into the wet floor. Broken crayons lay everywhere, snapped deliberately. And standing beside her, silent and pale, was Claire.
“What is this?” Michael shouted.
Claire flinched. “Michael—please—”