I barely looked at the photographs before nausea rolled through me.
My instincts reacted first. My stomach twisted. My fingers went cold. I flung the stack across the desk.
Lewis didn't.
He picked them up calmly, one by one, studying every detail. His face didn't change, but I felt the shift in him. The air around him thickened. Quiet. Controlled. Dangerous.
The last photo wasn't Lincy.
It was Silas's grave.
The image had been altered. Edited. Staged.
At the foot of the headstone lay a severed head, blood running from the eyes, nose, and mouth. A red mole marked the forehead.
My mole.
My head.
Lewis's fingers tightened around the photograph. His knuckles turned pale. The veins on the back of his hand stood out sharply, like he was restraining something inside himself.
"She's sending a message," I said slowly. "She wants to offer my head to Silas."
The words sounded calm.
But my pulse was not.
