The SUV crunched to a halt on the gravel driveway in front of the main house. The Sinclair estate was less a home and more a palace, a sprawling stone behemoth that loomed against the stormy sky. As the car door opened, a raw, salt-laced wind whipped off the Atlantic, cutting through Aria's wet dress and chilling her to the bone.
She slid out, the heavy, ruined gown dragging behind her. On the top step of the grand portico stood the butler, Mr. Graves. He was a tall, severe man in a perfectly tailored suit, his posture as rigid as a statue. His eyes, small and sharp, held a look of profound disdain.
Aria took a step toward the stairs, her only thought to get out of the biting wind. Mr. Graves raised his hand, a white-gloved gesture of absolute authority. He held a slender, silver-tipped cane, and he used it to bar her path.
"Mr. Sinclair's orders are explicit," the butler said, his voice as cold as the wind. "The main house was Miss Veronica's. A murderer is not fit to cross its threshold."
The words were a physical blow. Aria's head snapped toward the SUV, looking for Mark, but he was already back in the passenger seat, his gaze fixed straight ahead, refusing to meet hers. The car pulled away, leaving her alone on the driveway with the hostile butler.
Mr. Graves gestured dismissively to a gardener who was trimming a nearby hedge. "Take the... new Mrs. Sinclair to the old boathouse at the edge of the property."
Aria didn't argue. She knew it was pointless. There was no mercy to be found here. She turned and followed the gardener, her one bare foot numb against the cold, wet gravel.
They walked away from the perfectly manicured lawns and rose gardens, past the tennis courts and the shimmering pool house. The path devolved into a dirt track, overgrown with weeds and thorny bushes that snagged at the delicate lace of her dress, tearing it further.
After a ten-minute walk, they reached the most remote corner of the vast estate. There, half-hidden by overgrown ivy, stood a small, dilapidated stone building. The old boathouse. It looked like it hadn't been used in fifty years.
The gardener pushed open the warped wooden door. It groaned in protest, a long, screeching sound. He gestured for her to enter and then, without another word, turned and practically fled back toward the civilized part of the grounds.
Aria stepped inside. The air was thick with the smell of mildew, damp earth, and the faint, briny scent of the sea. It was a smell of decay.
She took in her new home. A single, rusty metal bed frame with a thin, stained mattress. A rickety wooden dresser. And a thick layer of dust and grime covering everything. A pane of glass in the single window was shattered, allowing the relentless wind to whistle through the small room.
She went to the small sink in the corner and turned the faucet. The pipes shuddered and groaned, finally spitting out a trickle of brown, rust-colored water. Undrinkable.
Shivering uncontrollably, she went to the dresser, hoping to find a blanket, anything. She pulled on the top drawer, but it was stuck fast. She yanked harder. With a splintering crack, the entire drawer came loose, falling toward the floor.
Inside, an old, tarnished hand mirror slid out and shattered on the stone floor, scattering shards of silvered glass across the dusty floorboards.
A curse escaped her lips. Kneeling, she began to carefully pick up the larger pieces. Her hands were numb with cold, her movements clumsy. A sharp, searing pain shot through her palm. She gasped, pulling her hand back.
A deep gash ran across her palm, welling with dark red blood. The cut was clean, deep. Blood dripped onto the floor, stark against the gray dust.
Aria pressed her other hand against the wound, a wave of dizziness washing over her. She had to stop the bleeding. She had to find a first-aid kit.
Forcing herself to her feet, she stumbled out of the boathouse and began the long, agonizing walk back to the main house, cradling her bleeding hand to her chest. The wind was stronger now, and the sky was almost completely dark.
She found a service entrance at the back of the house, near the kitchens, and pressed the buzzer. After a long moment, the door opened a crack. Mr. Graves peered out, his face contorted in annoyance.
Aria held up her hand. The blood was now running down her wrist, dripping from her fingertips. "Please," she said, her voice weak but steady. "I need a first-aid kit. I've cut myself."
Mr. Graves's eyes flickered to the wound, then back to her face. A cruel, thin smile touched his lips. "The estate's medical supplies are for the family and staff. Not for criminals." He then glanced at the drops of her blood on the pristine stone step. "You've soiled the entrance. You should apologize to Miss Veronica's memory for your carelessness."
Something inside Aria snapped. The last vestiges of shock and fear burned away, leaving only cold, hard rage. She met his gaze, her own eyes like chips of ice.
"Never."
The butler's smile vanished. "As you wish."
He slammed the heavy oak door in her face. The click of the deadbolt was loud and final.
Aria stood there for a moment, the wind tearing at her, the pain in her hand a throbbing, insistent drum. She looked down at her ruined dress. With her good hand, she gripped the inner lining, a layer of soft, clean silk, and tore a long strip free.
Gritting her teeth against the pain, she wrapped the makeshift bandage tightly around her bleeding palm. It was a poor substitute for proper care, but it would have to do.
Aria turned her back on the warm, lighted house and walked back into the darkness, a solitary, ghostly figure in a tattered white gown, disappearing into the storm.
