Sherry's hand trembled in mine, her short brunette hair falling messily across her forehead, a few strands sticking to her damp skin.
We'd thought the empty chamber was the worst thing tonight had to offer. We were wrong.
"Who killed them?" Sherry asked, her voice barely above a whisper. Her fingers twitched against my palm.
I swept the room with my eyes, pulse hammering in my ears. No forced entry. No signs of a struggle that had lasted long enough to be heard. The scene was clean and deliberate, the kind of work that happened between moments, in the spaces where no one was looking.
Owen's voice echoed in my head, clear as the moment he'd said it.
You trust people too easily. You believe in them too easily.
You're not a fool. How come your eyes aren't open?
And then Riya's letter. Mary's words in the cell.
A ghost is never right or wrong. It comes down to who's holding the contract.
