That afternoon, in the Bennett mansion, terror sounds like all three.
The glass slips from your small hand before you can stop it. It strikes the tile and explodes in a bright spray of glittering shards. Cold water fans across the white floor, carrying little crescent moons of reflected light toward the base of the cabinets. Behind you, ten-month-old Oliver startles in his walker and bursts into wailing sobs.
You whip around immediately and lift him into your arms before his wheels can roll toward the glass.
“Oh no,” you whisper into his fine, warm hair. “Oh no, oh no.”
Your heart starts pounding so hard it feels like a second creature trapped inside your chest. Since your mother died bringing Oliver into the world, you have become the kind of child who listens for danger first and breathes second. At eight years old, you know which doors groan, which floors creak, which voices sharpen before they strike.
And you know Caroline Bennett will hear this.
“Lily!”
The voice slices down the hallway like something metal.
