Janessa dropped the cloth without thinking and hurried toward the south corridor, her shoes clacking against the marble. She passed towering mirrors framed in gold that distorted her reflection as she rushed, making her look fragmented. Like a ghost fleeing from her own fear. Her shadow trembled ahead of her, stretched by the tall columns and trembling chandeliers that lined the ceiling.
The cry came again. Louder. Closer. It made her skin crawl.
At the end of the hallway, near the door that led to the east drawing room, she found him. A little boy about seven years old sat curled on the cold floor, knees pulled to his chest. His name was Cody Bram, and he was the only child of the mansion’s owner. His small hands shook uncontrollably, his cheeks streaked with tears. His eyes were swollen and red. Every breath he took came out broken, like his lungs could not quite remember how to work.
Janessa approached slowly. She kneeled before him with care, as if afraid the air around him might shatter if she moved too quickly.
“Cody,” she whispered, voice barely audible. “Sweetheart. What happened. What hurts.”