Chapter 38: Chapter 38
The SUV slid through the iron gates of Ivywood just past midnight, its tires whispering on the wet pavement. The mansion loomed, every window dark except for the single porch light, its ivy clutching the brick like possessive fingers.
Briana climbed out, the mountain’s chill still in her bones, and was met by the house’s stale exhalation of lemon polish and old money. It smelled like a museum. The grand foyer felt smaller, a gilded cage she’d walked back into voluntarily.
Simon, hauling her bag, offered a tired smile that didn't reach his eyes. “Back to reality.” Grant brushed past them, his shoulder hitting the doorframe with a dull thud. “Reality’s a construct, Hayes,” he muttered, already heading for the whiskey decanters glittering in the gloom.
Upstairs, Briana’s room felt alien, sterile and temporary. She dropped her bag and her eyes went immediately to the loose floorboard near the bed. Kneeling, she pried it up.
The ledger was gone. The empty space beneath the floorboards held only dust and shadows. A cold, sharp clarity cut through her fatigue. Someone had been in here.
The polished quiet of the house felt charged now, a held breath. She didn’t sleep. She listened to the familiar creaks and settles, parsing each sound for intention.
Morning light filtered through the tall windows, painting the mahogany floors in harsh stripes. She found Grant alone in the common room, sprawled in a wingback chair, staring at the cold fireplace. He hadn’t shaved.
He held up a familiar, leather-bound book without looking at her. “Looking for this?” His voice was gravel. “Carter found it. He’s very thorough.”
Briana stopped, her pulse a hammer in her throat. “That’s private.” “Nothing in this house is private,” Grant said, finally turning his head. His eyes were bloodshot.