The heavy, iron gates of the Estate hissed open, admitting the black sedan into a sanctuary of manicured silence and oppressive wealth. As the car wound up the long, paved driveway, the Victorian Gothic spires of the mansion rose against the rainy sky like the jagged teeth of a sleeping beast.
When they stepped into the grand foyer, the air was unnervingly still.
Luca—clutching his damp satchel—froze just past the threshold. He looked around the soaring marble hall, where shadows stretched ten feet long under the dim amber sconces. There was no sound of a kitchen staff, no rustle of a housekeeper's uniform, no distant murmur of life. The house was a tomb of glass and stone.
"It's... it's so quiet, Mr. Ford," Luca whispered, his voice echoing off the vaulted ceiling. "Where is everyone? Do you live here all alone?"
