An hour later, William’s phone buzzed in the cramped Queens apartment. It was a number he hadn’t seen in weeks: *The Estate Landline.*
He answered cautiously. “Hello?”
“William,” Beatrice’s voice was calm, devoid of the trembling fear that had defined her for a decade. “Bring your brother. Come home. Immediately.”
“Is this a trap?” William asked, signaling to Malcolm, who was cleaning his gun in the kitchen.
“No trap,” she replied. “The war is over.”
When the brothers arrived at the gates of the Croft Estate, the scene was unnerving. The private security team–Alistair’s mercenaries–was gone. The guard booth was empty. The massive iron gates stood wide open.
“I don’t like this,” Malcolm muttered, gripping the steering wheel of their rental car. “It feels like a tomb.”
They drove up the winding driveway. The front door of the mansion was ajar, light spilling out onto the portico. They walked in, expecting gunmen in the shadows. Instead, the house was silent, smelling faintly of lavender and old wood.