50

DAHLIA I haven’t gone to Kane’s place for three days. That doesn’t stop me from visiting his mom. She texted and invited me over for afternoon tea, and I couldn’t say no. I’ve been let into the extravagant mansion by a member of staff who merely bowed at me and told me to follow him. My hand tightens around the flowers I bought on my way here. The Davenport mansion rivals the Armstrongs’ in grandiosity and sheer opulence. They’re both huge, shining, and smell of old money. They both reek of death as well. My chest has been tight since the moment I walked in. The butler’s steps echo on the checkered marble floor, a soft but steady rhythm that cuts through the dooming silence. He moves with precision, his posture straight and his bald scalp catching the dim light as we pass towering walls of dark wood and art whose creatures feel like they’ll pop out and devour me. The air is heavy, laced with something old that presses against my skin like a warning. So…this is where Kane grew up. How c