You learn very young that terror has a sound.
Sometimes it is the sharp crack of glass shattering on a polished kitchen floor. Sometimes it is the click of high heels coming down a hallway too fast. Sometimes it is your baby brother crying in the wrong room at the wrong time because he does not yet understand which noises make adults dangerous.
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.
You flinch before you even see her. Then she appears in the kitchen doorway, tall and elegant and perfectly arranged, the kind of beauty that belongs on glossy magazine covers until you look directly into the eyes. She wears cream slacks, a silk blouse, and a face full of fury so practiced it seems almost casual.
“What have you done now?”
