The attic of the Crew mansion had not been opened in nine years.
Damien stood at the foot of the narrow stairs with a flashlight in one hand and a ring of old keys in the other, and felt like a boy again. He had been up here only once since the accident. He'd been nineteen. He had stood in the dust and the dark for five minutes, felt the whole weight of the past fall onto his chest, and fled.
"We don't have to," Silveria said softly behind him. "If it's too much."
"We do." He turned the key. The lock gave a rusty groan. "I should have done it years ago."
Felix brought up the rear with two lanterns, one for each hand, and an expression of grim determination. He had arrived within the hour after Damien's call, still in his work clothes, and had said only, "Show me where."
