The gates to the Vale mansion were taller than any building Sky had ever lived in. Metal bars curled into elegant patterns. As their car rolled up, the gates swung open by themselves.
“Whoa,” Sky whispered.
Her mom glanced at her.
“Remember,” she said softly. “Quiet. Stay close. Don’t touch anything.”
“I promise,” Sky said.
They drove up a long, perfectly paved driveway lined with manicured hedges and trimmed trees. The mansion rose ahead, white stone and tall columns, windows gleaming. Everything looked spotless, perfect.
Inside, it smelled wrong.
Not like food or flowers or cleaning products. Something sharp and sterile, like a hospital trying to pretend it was a home.
A man with a clipboard met them in the foyer.
“Mrs. Brooks,” he said. “Follow me.”
They walked through hallway after hallway—marble floors, expensive paintings, quiet so heavy it felt disrespectful to breathe too loud. No toys. No school pictures taped to the fridge. No laughter.
A woman appeared ahead of them. Tall. Thin. Dark hair pulled back so tightly it looked painful. Her eyes were the color of icicles.
Miss Calva.
She looked at seven-year-old Sky like the girl was dirt tracked in from the street.