Sterling Manor sat on the hill above the city, a three-story estate of old money and older secrets. Concrete walls surrounded the property, iron gates guarded the entrance, and the gardens were kept perfectly trimmed by servants paid to stay invisible.
Uncle Aldric Sterling ruled what was left of the family from the second-floor study. It was his command center, his sanctuary, the room where he counted money, signed orders, and made phone calls that ruined lives without ever raising his voice.
He walked in at quarter past one in the morning.
He'd been in bed. The servants had reported nothing unusual; the guards were at their posts, the wards were active, everything exactly as it should be. All he wanted was a brandy before sleeping.
Aldric opened the study door and froze.
The desk lamp was on. He hadn't left it that way. He was certain of it. Before leaving, he'd checked every light in the room, a habit that bordered on compulsion. The lamp had been off when he left.
