The storm came three nights later.
It started as a faint grumble at sunset, far out over the sea, and Silveria barely noticed it. She was in her workroom hemming the gold gown by hand. The police had taken the studio apart, and Adriana's runway date had been pushed by one week, so there was no point rushing. She sewed slowly. The stitches were small and calm. She was pleased to find her hands steady.
By ten o'clock, the grumble had become a roar.
Rain hit the roof in sheets. The wind screamed around the corners of the old mansion, rattling the shutters. A branch scraped against the window like fingernails. Every few seconds the room flared white, then went dark, then flared again.
She put the needle down.
It was silly. She knew it was silly. She was a grown woman with a degree and a husband and a house full of people, and she had spent her whole life in rooms with locks. Storms had never scared her.
