Dinner at the Moore household had become a battlefield without rules.
The clink of cutlery against porcelain was the only sound for several minutes, until Lucy broke first — her voice a rasp sharpened by exhaustion.
"You can't expect us to keep pretending, George. Not with the police camped outside. Not with children vanishing every week."
Across from her, George's jaw tightened. He didn't look up, slicing his meat with deliberate precision. "Pretending is what keeps order, Lucy. You want chaos? Panic? Then say her name the way the rest of them whisper it."
Lucy's hands slammed the table, rattling glasses. "She's under this roof! Our daughter. And every time I look at her—" Her voice cracked, her face twisting with something between terror and fury. "…I remember that night. Eight years ago. Don't you? Don't you dare pretend you don't."
The room went ice-cold.
Gabriel looked between them, his throat tightening. "What night?"
George finally looked up, his eyes burning holes through Lucy. "Enough." His tone was iron, the kind that silenced boardrooms and officials alike. "You'll speak no further."
But Lucy wasn't cowed. She stood, pacing, her hair falling loose around her face. "It's happening again, George. And you—standing there like you can command shadows to heel. You can't control this. You never could."
George rose slowly, towering, his presence filling the room. "And yet the only reason this family still stands, Lucy, is because I know when to keep silent. Unlike you."
A fragile silence hung. Then, a sound from the stairs.
They turned.
Gemma stood halfway down, barefoot, her nightdress brushing her ankles. She hadn't made a sound, but she was there, eyes fixed on them with that unnerving, unreadable calm.
For a moment, Lucy's composure shattered. She pressed a hand to her mouth, stumbling back as though she'd seen an apparition.
George didn't flinch. "Go back to your room, Gemma."
Gemma didn't move. She didn't blink. Her gaze lingered on her mother, who shook her head violently, whispering, "She knows. God help us, she knows."
And then — Gemma turned, walking silently back up the stairs.
Gabriel's heart thundered. He wanted to chase after her, demand answers, scream until she spoke. But the weight of his father's stare froze him in place.
Later that night, when the house had gone still, Gabriel crept into the kitchen for water. On the counter, he found a scrap of paper.
Gemma's handwriting. Small. Precise.
"Not yours. Not mine. His."
His hand trembled as he read it.
"His"… who? Not again.
The house creaked, shadows bending as though listening.
Gabriel shoved the paper into his pocket, pulse hammering, and told himself not to look toward the darkened end of the hallway—
where, for a split second, he thought he saw a white-haired figure watching him.