THE GIRL WHO HELD THE RABBIT UNTIL THE GOLDEN ROBE CAUGHT FIRE

Julian spun back toward the door just as the heavy crimson slab slammed shut with the finality of a guillotine blade.

"Elena!" Julian shouted, throwing himself against the wood and slamming his palms flat against the painted surface. "Open this door right now! This isn't funny!"

The muffled sound of laughter filtered through the cedar, smooth and chillingly calm. "It was never meant to be a joke, Julian. It was an inevitability."

"Daddy!" Lily’s voice came from the other side, thin and panicked. The sound of her small fists beating against the wood sent a spike of pure terror through Julian’s chest. "Make her stop! She’s taking my rabbit!"

"Lily! Run upstairs! Get to the phone!" Julian roared, his shoulder slamming into the wood again and again until the impact sent shockwaves of pain down his arm. There was no give, no rattle of the handle—only the heavy, immovable deadbolt sliding home with a rhythmic, mechanical authority.

The flashlight beam flickered, casting erratic shadows across the hundreds of framed photographs lining the cedar walls. In the dim, dying light, Julian finally saw what he had missed in his initial panic. Every single photo wasn't just of him. In the corner of each frame, partially obscured by shadows or dark drapes, was the blurred outline of a woman standing in the background, watching him. Watching them.

And in the very center of the table, resting on top of the banker's boxes, was a small, leather-bound journal with Clara’s familiar, elegant handwriting stamped in gold leaf across the cover: The Second Wife.

Julian’s hands trembled as he picked it up, the pages smelling faintly of lavender and old paper. He flipped it open to the last entry, dated three days before Clara’s supposed accidental drowning in the lake behind the property.

“He thinks he’s so clever with his new secretary. He thinks I don't see the gold robe she left in the guest room closet. But if I go, she steps into my life. So I’ve arranged the terms. The house remains mine. The girl remains mine. And when he tries to bury the truth, the room will swallow him whole.”

Julian dropped the journal as if it were burning his skin. The flashlight flickered twice and died, plunging the cedar room into absolute, suffocating darkness.

In the pitch blackness, just inches from his ear, a slow, deliberate whisper brushed against his skin.