Back at the Greyson Mansion, Dorothy sat rigidly by the tall window, her fingers drumming a relentless rhythm on the armrest of her chair. The late afternoon sun cast long, golden bars across the floor, but the tension in her chest only coiled tighter with every passing second.
Finally, the phone rang.
She snatched it up without hesitation.
"Did you find anything about Agnes?" she demanded, her voice slicing through the air, sharp and urgent.
The man on the other end was composed—too composed.
"No trace of her yet," he replied coolly. "But I did spot Eric meeting someone. Still working on identifying who."
Dorothy's brows knitted together, a fresh wave of irritation tightening her jaw. That wasn't what she wanted to hear.
"Then find out who it is," she snapped. "And fast. I want to know exactly where my daughter is—and what game Eric is playing."
