No footwear by the entryway.
Nothing suggested a child resided there except the faint resonance of a piano being played somewhere on the upper floor, one note hit repeatedly until it sounded less like music than a siren.
The guard escorted Grace into a library lined with legal volumes and secured cabinets.
Dominic stood by the hearth, sleeves pushed to his forearms, a glass of scotch sitting untouched beside him.
“You came,” he said.
“You made it hard not to.”
He stepped aside.
The interior of the mansion was chillier than the drizzle outside. Marble floors. Dark timber. Oil canvases. Chandeliers shimmering like ice. It was gorgeous in the way galleries were gorgeous—costly, quiet, and impossible to find comfort in.
No toys in the corridor.
No family snapshots on the side tables.
No footwear by the entryway.
