Someone's Pov
The hallway outside her condo was hushed, the kind of silence that presses against your ears until you can hear your own heartbeat. I rapped my knuckles against the door—once, twice—then, when no one answered, turned the knob.
The door wasn't locked.
I stepped inside and shut it quietly behind me. The soft hum of the air-conditioning filled the room. No music, no television. Just the faint whir of cool air and the slow tick of a wall clock.
"Savannah—the glowing mother herself," I called, trying to sound light. My words seemed to evaporate before they reached the far wall.
No reply.
A ripple of unease slid through me. I crossed the living room, my footsteps muffled by the thick carpet. From down the short hallway came a rustle: the sound of fabric being moved, a drawer sliding shut.
I followed it.
