Chapter 1

Rain drifted endlessly against the tall windows of the house, thin silver streams crawling down the glass beneath the porch lights while the wind moved heavily through the surrounding trees, filling the night with restless whispers and long creaking sighs that made the old place sound alive in ways Edgar Wainwright had never entirely grown comfortable with.

The house stood alone on the hill above Bell’s Crossing, massive and dark against the storm clouds, three floors of stone and old timber built by men who believed wealth should resemble permanence, and at night its empty rooms seemed to stretch forever, collecting silence in corners and hallways until even the smallest sound carried unnaturally far.

Edgar sat alone in the library with a drink resting beside him and the television flickering silently across the room, not truly watching anything, because lately his evenings had become little more than rituals for passing time until exhaustion finally forced sleep upon him.

At forty-six he remained a large man, broad across the shoulders and powerful in the hands, but there was a heaviness to him now that had not existed ten years earlier, something worn down and permanently vigilant, as though some essential part of him had learned long ago that peace never lasted.

The rain intensified briefly.

Then came the sound.

A tiny metallic rattle from somewhere toward the rear of the house.

Edgar’s eyes lifted immediately.