Move in

Flora POV.

The phone felt heavier than it should.

I stood in my apartment with my back against the door, the tampered lock still visible in my peripheral vision, and I made the call.

It rang once.

"Ms. Flora." Lyon's voice was smooth, unsurprised. Like he'd been waiting for this exact moment.

"I'll do it."

A pause. Not long. Just enough to tell me he was smiling.

"I'll inform Mr. Vane."

"No." I kept my voice flat. "I'll tell him myself. Give me the address."

Another pause. This one longer. Curious.

"As you wish."

He gave me the address. I wrote it down without asking questions.

Then I hung up and pressed my palm flat against the door, feeling the wood, the lock, the place where someone had been.

My stomach was tight.

But my voice had been calm.

Good.

---

The house wasn't a house.

It was an estate—stone walls, iron gates, a driveway that curved through trees like it was hiding something. The kind of place that didn't appear on maps. The kind of place where people disappeared.

I stood at the gate and waited.

A camera above the intercom swiveled toward me. A moment later, the gates opened without a sound.

I walked up the driveway alone.

The front door opened before I reached it.

A woman in a gray uniform stood in the doorway. Mid-fifties. Efficient. Unsmiling.

"Ms. Flora. I'm Mrs. Bell. I manage the household."

She didn't offer her hand. She didn't welcome me. She just stepped aside and waited for me to enter.

I stepped inside.

The foyer was cold. Not temperature cold—presence cold. Marble floors. High ceilings. A chandelier that looked like it had never been turned on. No photographs. No personal touches. No evidence that anyone lived here at all.

Mrs. Bell closed the door behind me.

"This way."

She led me through the house without commentary. I followed, but I wasn't listening to her footsteps. I was counting doors. Counting exits. Counting cameras.

One in the foyer. Two in the hallway. One near the stairs.

I noted each one.

The hallway opened into a sitting room—elegant, sterile, the kind of room designed to impress people you didn't want to stay. Mrs. Bell stopped at the threshold.

"Mr. Vane will see you shortly."

She disappeared before I could respond.

I stood alone in the room and catalogued.

Windows: three. All locked. No visible latches.

Doors: two. One I'd come through. One on the far side, closed.

Staff: I'd seen two so far. Mrs. Bell and a man in the garden through the window. There would be more.

Cameras: at least four in this room alone.

The house wasn't a home.

It was a controlled space.

And I'd just walked into it.

---

I heard him before I saw him.

Footsteps. Even. Unhurried. The kind of steps that didn't need to rush because the world waited for them.

Noral Vane entered the room.

He looked exactly as he had at the will reading—dark suit, controlled posture, expression that gave nothing away. He didn't smile. He didn't offer a greeting. He just looked at me.

The same way he had before.

Like he was pricing risk.

"You came," he said.

His voice was low. Calm. Not surprised.

"I said I would."

"You said a lot of things." He walked past me toward a console table near the window. "Most of them weren't true."

I didn't flinch. "You don't know me."

"I know enough."

He poured something from a glass decanter—dark, amber, neat—but didn't drink. Just held it. A prop. A pause.

I waited.

"You'll have your own room," he said. "Your own space. Access to the house, the staff, the grounds."

"And if I want to leave?"

"You can leave anytime."

"Then why does this feel like a cage?"

He turned. Slow. Deliberate. His eyes held mine with a steadiness that felt like a warning.

"Because you're smart," he said. "And smart people recognize when they're being contained."

---

I held his gaze.

He wasn't wrong.

But I wasn't going to admit that.

"One condition," I said.

He waited.

"A room with a window that opens."

His expression didn't change. But something flickered behind his eyes. Something almost like amusement.

"You want an exit."

"I want air."

"You want an exit."

I didn't argue. Because he was right.

He studied me for a long moment. Then he nodded once.

"Fine. The east room has French doors. They open to the garden."

"And the garden?"

"Fenced. But it opens."

It wasn't freedom. But it was something.

I took it.

"Fine," I said. "I'll take it."

---

Mrs. Bell showed me to the room.

East wing. Second floor. French doors leading to a small balcony that overlooked the garden. The garden was fenced—I checked—but the doors opened. The window opened. The air moved.

It wasn't freedom.

But it was closer.

I stood on the balcony after Mrs. Bell left and looked out at the grounds. Trees. Hedges. A stone path that led toward the back of the property. A building in the distance—small, dark, separate from the main house.

The boathouse.

I filed it away.

Then I went back inside and closed the doors.

---

I unpacked slowly.

Clothes in the closet. Notes in a drawer. The funeral program on the nightstand.

The evidence—the real evidence—stayed in my bag. I hadn't found a safe place yet. Not here. Not yet.

I sat on the bed and stared at the ceiling.

The room was clean. Impersonal. A guest room dressed up like a prison cell.

What would I search first?

The study. Noral's office. Anywhere he kept records.

What would I pretend not to notice?

The cameras. The staff. The locked door I'd passed in the hallway.

How would I buy time?

Smile. Comply. Look grateful.

I could do that.

I'd done it before.

---

The knock came at midnight.

I opened the door and found Noral standing in the hallway. Still in his clothes from earlier. Still controlled. Still unreadable.

"You're settled," he said.

It wasn't a question.

"I'm here."

He studied me. Long. Careful. Like he was reading something behind my face.

"You're planning something," he said.

My heart stopped. But my face didn't move.

"I'm planning to sleep."

"No." He stepped closer. Not enough to crowd me. Just enough that I felt him there—solid, unavoidable. "You're planning to search. To dig. To find something you can use."

I didn't answer.

"You think I don't see it," he said quietly. "But I do."

The air between us felt too thin.

"You're giving me safety," I said. "Not freedom."

He didn't blink.

"No," he said. "I'm giving you a choice. Stay here, stay safe, stay quiet. Or dig, and lose everything."

"And if I don't want to be safe?"

The question hung between us.

Something shifted in his eyes. Something dark. Something almost... sad.

"Then you'll get hurt," he said.

He stepped back.

"Move in," he said. "But don't dig, Flora. Not if you want to stay safe."

Then he turned and walked down the hallway, disappearing into the dark.

I closed the door and leaned against it.

My hands were shaking.

But my voice had been calm.

Good.