My name is Ethan. I’m an ER nurse in the trauma unit at University of Colorado Hospital, and after years of emergency medicine,

The beam of my flashlight cut a jagged white line through the dimness of the studio. Clara was standing half-framed in the doorway, leaning lazily against the oak jamb. She wasn't wearing her silk blouse anymore; instead, she wore a simple black cashmere sweater and dark jeans. Her red hair fell loosely over her shoulders, framing a face completely devoid of warmth.

She wasn't surprised. She wasn't panicked.

She was smiling.

“You know, Ethan,” Clara said, her voice dropping an octave into a low, melodic purr as she stepped into the room, “curiosity is a very dangerous trait in a trauma nurse. Haven't your patients ever taught you that some wounds are better left unstitched?”

I stood up slowly from the desk, keeping the leather journal clutched in my left hand while my right hand slid naturally into the pocket of my hoodie, gripping my phone.

“How many, Clara?” I asked, my voice dangerously steady. Adrenaline flooded my veins, sharpening every sense. I could hear the faint hum of the refrigerator downstairs, the ticking of the grandfather clock in the hall, the rhythmic beating of my own heart. “How many husbands? How many fires?”

Clara chuckled—a light, musical sound that sent a shiver straight down my spine. She didn't answer directly. Instead, she took another slow step toward me, her green eyes gleaming in the dark.

“Julian was weak,” she said casually, as if discussing the weather. “He wanted to leave. He packed his bags one night and told me he was taking Harper away from me. Can you imagine? Taking my child?” She shook her head, her expression hardening into pure venom. “So I helped him pack permanently. A faulty gas line is such a convenient thing in old Victorian homes. The insurance company never even blinked.”

“You murdered him,” I said, the words tasting like ash in my mouth.

“I protected what was mine,” she corrected, her tone sharp. “Just like I’m protecting our life now. But you, Ethan... you couldn't just mind your own business, could you? You had to play the hero.”

“You’re beating a seven-year-old child,” I snapped, taking a step forward. “You’re torturing your own daughter!”

“I am *shaping* her,” Clara hissed, her facade finally cracking to reveal the raw, unadulterated monster underneath. “She is soft. She cries at shadows. If I don't break her now, the world will destroy her. And you... you’re interfering with the process.”

Before I could react, Clara’s hand darted behind her back.

*Click.*

A heavy, industrial-grade padlock clicked open.

Before I realized what she was doing, Clara lunged toward the heavy oak door leading to the attic stairs and slammed it shut, turning the deadbolt with a deafening *clack*.

“Clara, open the door!” I shouted, rushing forward and throwing my weight against the wood. It didn't budge. The deadbolt was reinforced with steel plating.

“Sleep tight, darling,” her voice drifted mockingly through the thick oak. “We have a very busy day tomorrow. And don't worry about Harper—she’ll make a wonderful orphan... again.”

Her footsteps faded down the stairs, light and fast.

“Clara!” I slammed my shoulder against the door again, pain shooting down my arm, but the deadbolt held firm.

I was locked in the third-floor studio.

My mind raced. There had to be another way out. I spun around, sweeping the flashlight across the studio. The windows!

I rushed toward the large skylight set into the pitched roof. I threw the latch, but it was painted shut, rusted into place by decades of mountain weather. I slammed the heel of my hand against the glass—*crack!*—I hit it again, ignoring the blood beginning to ooze from my knuckles, until a jagged hole broke through.

Cold mountain air rushed into the room. I reached my arm through the broken glass, grabbed the exterior latch, twisted it, and shoved the heavy glass pane outward.

I hauled myself up, squeezing through the narrow opening onto the slate roof of 219 Hawthorne Avenue.

The wind howled around me, biting at my face as I stood on the steep, sloping roof. Below me, the ground looked a terrifying distance away. But I didn't care. I crouched low, scrambled across the slick slate tiles toward the guttering, and found the thick wooden trellis that ran down the side of the Victorian house like a ladder.

I grabbed the trellis, swung my legs over, and slid down, tearing my hands on the rough cedar wood before dropping hard onto the manicured lawn below.

I didn't hesitate. I sprinted toward the back entrance of the house, my lungs burning, adrenaline roaring in my ears.

The back door was unlocked. I threw it open and rushed inside.

“Harper!” I yelled, bursting into the kitchen.

Silence.

“Harper!”

I sprinted up the grand staircase, taking the steps three at a time, and threw open the door to her bedroom.

Empty.

The bed was unmade, the duvet tossed aside. Scout the fox lay abandoned on the floor near the closet.

Panic seized my chest, squeezing until I couldn't breathe. I ran out into the hallway, scanning the doors. Every single one was open.

Except one.

At the far end of the hallway, leading down into the dark, subterranean depths of the Victorian house...

The basement door was wide open.