The rain did not stop. It fell hard against the windows of the old house and turned the paths outside into dark streams. Inside, the fire in the sitting room burned high. Elena and Adrian had not slept. The broken kitchen window was boarded as well as they could manage, but the cold air still found its way in. Every sound from outside made them listen.

Adrian stood near the hallway door, listening. Elena sat close to the fire, the cracked photograph of her mother on the mantel above her. The two old letters and the faded photograph of Clara lay on the low table. The truth was no longer hidden in drawers. It was here, in the open, and the shadow that wanted it buried had already shown it was willing to break glass to reach them.