The living room was dark, only faint moonlight creeping through the curtains.
His pulse picked up. A burglary? Had someone broken in? Why wasn't the door fully open?
He flicked on the lights.
And what he saw was not at all what he expected.
Pascal Brandt — much younger, broad-shouldered, his hair still full and dark — was pacing across the living room like a man who had forgotten how to stand still. His steps were short and restless, as if he didn't know what he was waiting for.
Before Javi could speak again, the bedroom door clicked softly open.
Out came his mother, Helena Brandt, her expression stern and warning as she pressed a finger against her lips.
"Michael," she whispered sharply, "keep your voice down."
Javi closed his mouth immediately.
Something was wrong.
Very wrong.
