The next morning, word spread. An old woman, Agnes Holloway, had vanished. Her door had been found ajar, her lamp still burning, her supper untouched. The town muttered about burglars, drifters, bad luck. But Clara knew better. She had seen the stranger.
By evening, the police knocked on doors. Yet no one dared mention the man who watched from the shadows. Elmswick had always feared its night, long before Lucian ever stepped into it.
Clara, restless, walked past the Holloway house. The curtains fluttered though the windows were shut. The air around it was colder than the rest of the street. On the doorstep, she swore she saw a smear of red. Just a trace. Just enough.