Chapter 1 - The Return to Blackwater House
Ten days earlier, the road to Blackwater House disappeared beneath a curtain of coastal rain.
Everett sat in the back of a black sedan, reading the same message for the seventh time.
Maren: The doctor says Noah is healthy. I wish you were here.
Below the message was a photograph of Maren holding their newborn son near the nursery window. Noah’s tiny hand was curled around one of her fingers.
Everett had left London four days earlier to resolve an emergency involving the Langford Foundation’s European accounts. The matter should have taken two weeks. Instead, an uneasy feeling had driven him home early.
Maren had stopped answering calls that morning.
His mother claimed Maren was sleeping.
The housekeeper claimed she had been given the week off.
The private nurse Everett had hired said Celeste had dismissed her without explanation.
When Everett asked why, the nurse had answered with a sentence he could not forget.
“Mrs. Langford told me the baby was no longer my concern.”
Lightning illuminated the cliffs.
Blackwater House appeared beyond the iron gates, a wide stone mansion overlooking the Atlantic. Generations of Langfords had lived there, fought there, married there, and buried their secrets beneath its polished floors.
The gates were locked.
Everett leaned forward.
“Use the service entrance.”
The driver hesitated.
“Mr. Langford, your mother’s office said no one was expected until Friday.”
“I own the property.”
The driver turned toward a narrow road leading along the eastern wall.
As the car approached the service gate, Everett saw workers carrying boxes into the mansion. White flowers, crystal glasses, silver serving trays, and banners bearing the gold crest of the Langford Foundation passed through the rain.
A gala was being prepared.
No one had told him.
He entered through the kitchen.
The staff fell silent when they recognized him.
A young server dropped a bundle of napkins.
Everett removed his wet coat.
“Where is Maren?”
No one answered.
He looked at the kitchen manager, Mrs. Bell.
She had worked for his family since he was a child. Her face was pale.
“Mrs. Bell?”
She glanced toward the ceiling.
“Your mother instructed us not to disturb the west wing.”
“Why?”
“She said Miss Vale and the baby were resting.”
Everett studied her.
“Do you believe that?”
Mrs. Bell lowered her voice.
“I heard a door being locked last night.”
Everett moved toward the corridor.
At the base of the main staircase, he found Celeste waiting.
She wore a navy dress and a calm smile, as if his arrival had been expected.
“You should have called,” she said.
“I did. Maren didn’t answer.”
“She is recovering. She needs quiet.”
“I’ll decide that after I see her.”
Celeste stepped into his path.
“The west wing is being treated for mold.”
Everett stared at her.
“You just said Maren was resting there.”
For one second, Celeste’s smile vanished.
Then she touched his arm.
“You’ve been traveling. You’re tired.”
Everett pulled away.
“What is happening in this house?”
Before she could answer, a soft sound came from upstairs.
It was faint beneath the rain.
A baby crying.
Everett looked toward the west corridor.
Celeste’s fingers tightened around the stair rail.
“That isn’t Noah,” she said.
The crying came again.
May you like
This time Everett heard something else beneath it.
Three slow knocks against a locked door.
