Aria sat in the back of Xander's car, the world blurring past the window. Her hands trembled in her lap, but her voice stayed steady.
"He was always loyal to my father," she said. "Dalton. Quiet. Efficient. He handled everything after the fire. The estate. The will. My… guardianship."
Xander glanced at her in the mirror. "Guardianship?"
She nodded. "I was still seventeen. Just barely. Everything went to him—until I turned eighteen. The assets. The house. Even Amara's belongings."
"And he didn't find it strange she left no will? No body?"
"He said everything burned. There was nothing to find."
Xander didn't reply, but the muscles in his jaw flexed again.
They reached Dalton's townhouse in the city just before noon. It was pristine. Manicured. Not a single leaf out of place.
But the door was slightly ajar.
Xander reached for her arm. "Stay here."
"No."
"Aria."
She stepped past him before he could stop her. "I'm done being quiet."
Inside, the house was silent. Too silent. No running appliances, no footsteps, no rustle of paper. Just stillness.
Then a creak upstairs.
They both froze.
Another creak. A dragging sound.
Aria moved toward the stairs, heart thundering.
At the top of the landing, the hallway stretched into shadow. One door was open—just slightly.
She pushed it open.
And froze.
The room was empty. Except for the smell of smoke.
And a single Polaroid pinned to the mirror.
Aria walked up to it with shaking hands.
It was Amara.
Standing in the greenhouse.
Eyes wide.
And in the background… a figure.
Male.
Face blurred.
But unmistakable in posture and build.
Xander.