Chapter 3 3

Chambers opened the door, and Serena stepped out. The dampness of the rain clung to her, a physical barrier between her and the warmth radiating from the house.

Harrison Vance was running. He was a man who usually walked with the slow dignity of old money, but now he was taking the steps two at a time, his cashmere cardigan flapping.

"Serena!"

He crashed into her. His arms were strong, shaking. He smelled of tobacco and expensive soap.

Serena's body went rigid. It was instinct-a threat response to being restrained. She forced her muscles to liquefy, forcing her arms to come up and pat his back.

"Finally," Harrison choked out, burying his face in her wet hair. "My little star. You're home."

Eleanor Vance stood in the doorway. She was holding onto the frame as if it were the only thing keeping her upright. Her face was translucent, pale as paper.

Harrison pulled back, keeping his hands on Serena's shoulders, then guided her toward the door.

Eleanor reached out. Her hand trembled. When she touched Serena's cheek, her fingers were ice.

Serena looked down. Eleanor's fingernails were a dusky, pale violet. Hypoxia. Congestive heart failure.

"I'm so sorry," Eleanor whispered, tears spilling over. "I'm so sorry we lost you."

Something twisted in Serena's chest. It wasn't the mission. It was a raw, unfamiliar ache.

"I'm okay, Mom," Serena said. The word felt foreign, sharp on her tongue.

Chambers cleared his throat gently. "The damp air, Madam."

They moved inside. The foyer was a cavern of marble and gold. Two rows of staff bowed. Harrison gestured grandly, his voice booming with pride as he claimed this space for her.

Eleanor led her up the sweeping staircase to the East Wing.

"We kept a space," Eleanor said, pointing to a gap in the line of portraits on the gallery wall. "For you."

She opened a set of double doors.

The bedroom was larger than the entire trailer Serena had lived in for a decade. It was done in soft lavenders and creams. But it was the pile in the center that drew the eye.

Boxes. Hundreds of them. Wrapped in silver paper, ribbons of every color.

"Every birthday," Eleanor said, her breath hitching. "Every Christmas. I bought them. I knew you'd come back to open them."

Serena looked at the mountain of gifts. Her throat tightened. This wasn't part of the cover. This was real.

Eleanor suddenly doubled over, a harsh, wet cough tearing through her frail body. She gasped, clutching her chest, her lips turning a shade bluer.

"Eleanor!" Harrison was there instantly, panic in his eyes. A maid rushed forward with a glass of water and a pill bottle.

Serena glanced at the label. Digoxin.

She moved. She stepped behind her mother, her hand resting on Eleanor's back, between the shoulder blades. To Harrison, it looked like a comforting, if slightly clumsy, rub.

But her thumb found the precise pressure point below the seventh cervical vertebra. She pressed, a deep, rhythmic pressure that looked like a simple massage.

Eleanor inhaled sharply. The coughing stopped. The color flooded back into her cheeks slightly as her airways relaxed.

She turned, looking at Serena with wide, confused eyes. "That... that felt warm."

"Just rubbing your back, Mom," Serena said, smiling innocently.

Harrison exhaled, his shoulders slumping. He looked from his wife's improved color to Serena's hand, a flicker of puzzlement in his eyes. The effect had been too immediate, too... perfect. But the overwhelming relief washed it away. A coincidence. A miracle. His daughter was home, that's all that mattered. "You need to rest, El. Let Serena wash up."

They left her alone.

Serena stood by the floor-to-ceiling window, watching the rain lash against the glass. The silence of the room was heavy.

Her phone buzzed in her pocket. A single line of encrypted text.

Target acquired. Club Onyx. Tonight.

Serena turned away from the window. The daughter was gone. The Ghost was back.