Aisha’s gaze snapped to the crack of light again. “Not now.”
She opened the closet door just enough to slip out. Marcus followed, heart slamming inside his ribs like it wanted out.
The hall looked the same as it always did. Cream-colored walls, framed art Marcus had bought because it matched the furniture, not because it meant anything. A floral arrangement on the table. The quiet wealth of a house designed to impress.Home Furnishings
Nothing looked like murder.
Aisha moved fast, her steps sure. She didn’t head toward the main staircase. She led him down the servant corridor, past the linen closet, past the pantry, past the back kitchen that always smelled faintly of lemons.Marcus’s mind kept trying to grab for order.
Call security. Call the police. Call Captain Reed.
He reached for his phone, and Aisha caught his hand.
“Leave it,” she hissed.
“What are you doing?” Marcus whispered. “Aisha, I can—”
She cut him off with one look. Not anger. Not disrespect.
