The fabric softener in the laundry room suddenly smelled nauseatingly sweet, like crushed petals over a freshly dug grave. Rosa held Lily so tightly her knuckles turned white, her mind racing through the terrifying architecture of the Whitmore estate.

Snap.

Rosa didn't wait to see who opened the door. She bolted down the hallway, her soft-soled slippers making no sound against the Persian runners as she sprinted toward the servants' stairwell.

“Who’s there?!” Julian’s voice boomed from the study, filled with panic and authority.

Rosa ducked behind a heavy velvet tapestry in the east wing just as heavy, rapid footsteps echoed down the corridor. She held her breath, pressing her entire body against the cold plaster wall.

Through a small gap in the fabric, she watched Julian and Charles rush past with flashlights, their faces twisted with grim determination.

“Check the kitchen wing!” Julian ordered. “If someone heard us...”

“They won’t live to tell the tale, sir,” Charles replied coldly, his flashlight beam sweeping across the dark floorboards before fading away down the stairs.

Rosa waited until the footsteps died away entirely before she dared to exhale. Her legs felt like water. She had to get Lily out of this house—tonight. This wasn't just a wealthy family with dark secrets; it was a nest of killers, and they knew someone was onto them.

She crept back to her room, her heart pounding a frantic rhythm against her ribs.

“Lily? Baby, wake up,” Rosa whispered urgently, shaking her daughter gently.

Lily rubbed her eyes sleepily, clutching her wooden blocks. “Mommy? Are we playing hide and seek?”

“Yes, sweetheart. The biggest game of our lives,” Rosa said, hastily packing a single canvas duffel bag with a few clothes, their passports, and her meager savings.

As she zipped the bag shut, a sudden, blinding flash of light cut through the cracks under her bedroom door.

Heavy, iron-shod boots stopped right outside her threshold.