The house was too still. It carried a quiet that felt wrong, as if someone had pressed mute on a life already dulled by secrecy.
Dust sat stubbornly on the edges of old furniture, and shadows clung to corners like they had grown roots. There were stubborn cobwebs on the ceilings, and the distinct smell of mold coming from everywhere.
But that's to be expected; the owner was dead and so was its will to stay alive.
Athena moved through the silence with a small frown between her brows. She swept her flashlight across yet another drawer, yet another pointless box, yet another dead end.
Behind her, she heard Ewan shift. "Anything?" he asked.
Athena sighed. "No. Not a damn thing."
They had been at this for hours—following the last thread Morgan had left behind when they had tortured him months ago. The necklace. The one trinket he refused to let go of until the very end.
