The fragile alliance with Riven was a secret I carried like a shard of ice in my chest. In the days that followed Ivy's birthday, the penthouse felt different. The air was charged with a new, unspoken tension. Crosby's behavior was… off. He was never overtly cruel or neglectful, but his interactions with Ivy were no longer those of a disinterested, if possessive, grandfather. They were studies.
He would watch her as she played, his gaze not fond, but intensely observant. He started asking strange, pointed questions.
"Does she ever feel warm to you? Unusually warm?" he asked one evening, his eyes fixed on her as she built a tower of blocks.
"No, she's fine," I said, my voice tighter than I intended.
He didn't look at me. "Has she ever complained about her eyes? A tingling sensation? Headaches?"
My blood ran cold. "No, Crosby. She's six. She complains about broccoli and bedtime."
