Seraphina didn't know what annoyed her more—being followed, or knowing that she'd somehow expected it.
She had only just stepped back onto the wooden veranda when she sensed him behind her. A familiar shift in the air, a weight, a presence. Not loud. Not clumsy. But definitely there.
She stopped walking. Closed her eyes. Counted to three.
Then slowly turned around.
And there he was.
Konstantin Ivanov. Towering. Unbothered. Hands in his pockets, like he hadn't just been caught tailing her through her own garden like a state-sanctioned stalker.
"Seriously?" she asked, one brow raised.
His gaze didn't waver. "It's my job to watch over you."
She let out an incredulous laugh and gestured vaguely to the blooming rose bushes behind her. "Watch over me? What am I, Rapunzel? You think someone's going to crawl out of a shrub and attack me with a gardening fork?"
He said nothing.
Her arms crossed, fingers digging into the sleeves of her cardigan. "You're invading my privacy."
"It's part of the protocol."
"You're everywhere," she snapped, taking a step closer. "In my kitchen. In my study. Breathing my oxygen. You can't just lurk around like some silent reaper and expect me to feel safe."
He cocked his head, still unreadable. "Would you prefer I be loud?"
"I'd prefer you go do literally anything else. Like... I don't know, fuck someone, go on a date, call your long-lost father, take a kid to school—whatever normal people do when they're not hovering behind me like some six-foot murder cloud."
Something flickered in his expression. Almost a twitch. Maybe amusement. Maybe something darker.
"You think I'm normal?" he asked quietly.
She blinked, thrown off.
"No," she muttered. "I think you're clinically insufferable."
He didn't respond. Instead, he stepped around her, back toward the house, as if the conversation had never happened. Like her outburst was just static noise in a day full of more important things.
Seraphina stood frozen on the path, fists clenched.
> He didn't yell. He didn't argue. He didn't even rise to the bait. That was worse than anything.
With an angry exhale, she stomped back into the house, brushing past him on her way to the stairs.
"Where are you going now?" he asked, not looking up from the phone in his hand.
"To get something from the attic," she snapped. "Unless that's forbidden now too."
He didn't reply.
> Good. She didn't want him to.
---
The attic groaned beneath her weight as she pulled the ladder down and climbed up slowly, the wooden rungs cold and rough beneath her hands. Dust particles danced in the narrow shaft of light that filtered through the tiny round window near the roof's peak. The air was warm, stale, and thick with the scent of old wood, mothballs, and time.
She hadn't been up here in years.
The last time had been after the funeral—her grandmother's funeral, not her grandfather's. His had been quieter. Closed-casket. Awkward silences and whispered condolences. No one really knew how to talk about suicide in polite company.
She stepped carefully through the maze of old furniture, forgotten boxes, antique trunks, and draped cloths covering heirlooms she barely remembered.
She was looking for one thing.
A small, carved wooden box. Mahogany, with brass clasps.
It had belonged to her grandmother. She remembered slipping a necklace into it before the funeral. A necklace she wanted to have cleaned—just something small, something tangible. Something that reminded her of the woman who raised her and made the world seem beautiful, even when it wasn't.
She crouched by a low chest near the window and opened it, sorting through lace doilies and yellowed photo albums, frustration building in her chest like steam.
Then—thud.
A sharp jolt of pain lit up her knee as she slammed it against the edge of a crate. "Ow, goddamn it," she hissed, stumbling back.
Something shifted beside her.
A second thud, softer this time.
She turned.
A box had fallen from the top of a stack of forgotten suitcases. Not the one she was looking for.
Smaller. Plainer. Dust-covered.
She frowned, crouched, and picked it up.
It wasn't locked. Just latched with an old snap closure that creaked when she opened it.
Inside was a statue of the Virgin Mary, chipped slightly at the base. Seraphina recognized it—it used to sit on the hallway table beside the umbrella stand. Her grandmother had quietly retired it after her grandfather's death.
Tucked beside the statue was something else.
A single, folded letter.
The paper was old, yellowed at the edges, but the handwriting was unmistakable.
Her grandfather's.
Neat, slanted cursive. The kind he used in the letters he used to slip under her door when she was small. Back when he still smiled. Back when he still believed in something.
Seraphina's breath caught.
She unfolded it carefully, like it might crumble in her hands.
And read.
---
> Seraphina,
If you're reading this, it means I've failed to protect her.
Your grandmother is playing a dangerous game, and I fear it's only a matter of time before it consumes her—or all of us. She thinks she's doing the right thing. Maybe she is. But right doesn't matter to the people she's threatening.
She's trying to expose them. Rich people. Untouchable people. And they've already sent their warnings.
Last week, I found our cat on the porch. Eyes gouged out. Dead.
Last night, we received a box. Inside was a head. Human.
I didn't tell her. But I'm receiving texts now. Telling me to control her.
To keep her quiet. To keep her leashed.
Or I'll be next.
If anything happens to me, know that I didn't go willingly.
They'll call it a suicide. But you'll know better.
I'm scared, Rina.
Take care of her. If you can.
—Grandpa
---
Seraphina sat frozen on the attic floor, letter trembling in her hands.
The silence pressed in.
For a long, breathless moment, all she could hear was her pulse pounding in her ears and the soft creaking of the old beams above her.
> They'll call it a suicide.
But you'll know better.
Her grandfather hadn't taken his own life.
He had been eliminated.
Her grandmother had been trying to expose something.
Something that got her husband killed.
Something that made her disappear.
And now—now Seraphina was the one they were watching.
Suddenly, Konstantin's cameras didn't seem so excessive anymore.
Her hands gripped the letter tighter.
> I need answers.
Seraphina's heart thundered in her chest as she bolted down the attic stairs, skipping the last two rungs and landing hard, the floorboards groaning beneath her weight.
The letter was clenched tightly in her hand, edges curled, paper trembling as she fought to control the wave of nausea rising in her throat. She hit the hallway and stopped cold.
Konstantin was already there.
Standing at the base of the staircase.
As if he'd been waiting for her.
He didn't flinch when her wild eyes landed on him. He didn't move when she descended the last step with fire in her veins.
But his eyes—those sharp, ice-drenched eyes—narrowed when he saw the letter in her grip.
She held it up like a weapon.
"Did you know?" she demanded.
He didn't react. "Know what?"
She shoved the paper forward, voice sharp. "About this."
He took it without hesitation. Unfolded it with careful fingers. But he didn't read it—he only scanned it. A glance. A flicker of recognition, maybe.
Then—casually, infuriatingly—he folded it back up and slid it into his jacket pocket.
Seraphina blinked.
"Excuse me—what the hell are you doing?" she snapped, reaching out instinctively to snatch it back.
He stepped just out of reach.
"I'll investigate it."
Her mouth parted, stunned. "That's it? Investigate it? You just slide it into your government-issued jacket like it's a receipt?"
His expression didn't change. No guilt. No sympathy. No sign that the words on that page meant anything to him.
But Seraphina… she felt them like a knife in her ribs.
"My grandfather was murdered," she said, her voice hoarse. "And the world thinks he took his own life."
"We can't be so sure about that."
She threw her hands up. "The letter is right there! His handwriting. His words. He knew something was going to happen. That cat—that head—what kind of people was my grandmother exposing?"
Konstantin looked at her with that infuriating stillness. The kind of silence that felt like a locked vault. A prison with no key.
"Tell me what you know," she pressed, stepping closer. "What was she involved in? What kind of dangerous people send boxes with heads in them? And where is she? Where is she?"
"You ask too many questions," he said coolly.
Seraphina's breath hitched.
"You're damn right I ask questions," she spat. "My grandfather was butchered and my grandmother's been missing for two months. You don't get to waltz into my house, take my letter, and then play coy."
He turned, already walking down the hallway like the conversation was over.
She stood there, stunned.
"Hey! Get back here!" she shouted.
He didn't answer.
Didn't turn around.
Just disappeared around the corner like a shadow dissolving into fog.
---
For a long moment, Seraphina stood alone in the hallway, fists clenched at her sides, breath coming in tight bursts. The air felt too thin, the walls too close. The whole house seemed to tilt, heavy with secrets and echoes and ghosts.
> I won't let this go. I can't.
She turned on her heel and stormed back to her study, slamming the door behind her.
---
The room was dim, the storm clouds outside rolling back in and casting the house in a dull silver light. Her laptop sat on the desk where she'd left it, the screen still open on her manuscript.
But her focus had shifted.
The book could wait.
She sat down hard in the chair, cracked her knuckles, and opened a browser tab.
> Let's see what the internet has to say about William Hargrave.
She typed in his name.
"William Calder + obituary"
"William Calder+ suicide"
"William Calder+ wife missing"
The results flooded in.
And just like she remembered—it was all there. Neat. Sanitized. Sterile.
> William Calder, 76, respected professor of political history and member of the Eastbourne Historical Society, died by suicide in his home. He is survived by his wife, Lillian Calder, and granddaughter, Seraphina. The family has asked for privacy.
Seraphina's lip curled.
She dug deeper.
Articles. Press releases. Quiet condolences from colleagues.
All of them said the same thing.
No mention of the cat.
No mention of the head.
No mention of warnings, threats, or letters.
> Just a quiet man who hung himself in the guest bedroom.
She found one old article on a fringe blog titled "Mysterious Patterns in Eastbourne Suicides?" but it had been flagged as conspiracy and removed. The cached version barely loaded. It mentioned Lillian Calder only once—as a possible source of "disruption among wealthy stakeholders."
It made her blood run cold.
Her fingers hovered over the keyboard, knuckles white.
This wasn't fiction.
This wasn't plot.
This was her family.
Her story.
And if she didn't figure it out… no one would.
She swallowed hard and stared at the article header again.
Then whispered to the empty room, "I'm going to get to the bottom of this. I swear it."
Behind her, the floor creaked faintly.
She turned—but there was no one there.
Just the house, watching her.