Morning came too early.
Amara hadn't slept. She sat curled in the bay window of her room, the same blanket wrapped around her shoulders from last night, her gaze fixed on the mist creeping over Thornridge's sprawling lawns. The whisper she thought she heard outside the locked door still echoed in her mind.
Was it her imagination?
A memory?
Or something more?
The faint scent of roses still clung to her sweater.
She hadn't worn perfume.
By midday, she found herself reorganizing Eli's study. The room was lined with shelves of untouched books and carefully dusted antiques. A fireplace crackled even though the air wasn't cold. Everything about this space was curated, like the rest of the manor — designed to look lived in, while hiding the absence of true life.
She was dusting the corner shelves when she noticed something odd.
A camera.
Small. Barely visible. Tucked into the molding just above the bookcase.
She stared at it for a long moment. It didn't blink. It didn't move.
But it was watching.
She glanced around.
Another in the chandelier.
One embedded in the corner near the curtain rod.
Her heart pounded.
This wasn't just a security system.
It was surveillance. Constant surveillance.
"Looking for something?" came a voice.
She jumped.
Eli stood in the doorway, quiet as a shadow.
"No—just dusting," she replied, trying to keep her tone even.
His eyes followed her to the shelf. "That one's not dusty."
She swallowed.
"You watch everyone in this house?"
"Security," he said simply. "I can't afford surprises."
"But you watch me?" she asked, folding her arms.
There was a pause.
"You're not like the others."
"Is that supposed to be a compliment?"
"It's a warning."
That afternoon, Amara returned to her room and opened the journal again.
She flipped to a passage marked with a star in the margin.
"The mirrors aren't mirrors. The eyes aren't just his. This place is always watching."
She rose, walked to the mirror across from her bed, and stared at it.
The frame was elegant, golden. Victorian, probably.
But as she reached behind it, her fingers brushed cold metal.
She pried it away from the wall.
Behind it was a camera.
Her breath caught.
There were no wires. Wireless. Compact. New.
She set it on the table, the lens pointed away.
Later that evening, she confronted Margot.
"Why are there cameras in our rooms?"
Margot's face paled slightly but remained composed.
"For security."
"In the guest rooms?"
"Especially in the guest rooms."
"You think I'm a threat?"
Margot looked over her shoulder before whispering, "Not everything in this house is about you, dear. There are threats you can't even name."
"Then tell me."
"I told you once," Margot said, backing away. "Some answers demand more than you're willing to lose."
That night, Amara didn't sleep again.
She sat with the journal open, rereading the same page, trying to decode what her mother had meant. Mirrors. Eyes. Secrets.
Somewhere in the quiet, she rose and tiptoed to the hall.
Drawn again to the west wing.
She didn't hear him until it was too late.
"You just can't help yourself, can you?" Eli's voice was low behind her.
She turned, startled.
"I needed air."
"Curiosity will bury you in this house," he said, stepping closer. "There are things in these walls that never left."
"Like my mother?" she snapped.
He froze.
Something dark passed over his face.
"You know she was here."
His jaw tightened. "Everyone knows she was here."
"But no one knows where she went."
Eli studied her for a long moment. "You think I hurt her."
"I think you know more than you say."
"You want the truth, Amara?"
"Yes."
"Then be prepared to bleed for it."