Maya sank into the chair beside her, feeling the weight of the mansion pressing down. “There was a little girl who lived there, wasn’t there?”

“In houses that rich, tragedy becomes gossip long before the funeral flowers have a chance to dry,” Catherine said.

Maya stared at her in shock. “You know about this?”

“Everyone knows a piece of the story. No one knows the whole truth.” Catherine adjusted the blanket over her aching knees. “His wife died in a car accident.

The daughter, too. Three years ago, on a rainy night on the road to the valley.”

Maya closed her eyes, and the mansion suddenly made sense—the silence, the locked room, the untouched things.