The water in the bathtub is a perfect, stagnant mirror, disturbed only by the gentle weight of Cassandra Locke. She lies submerged to her chin, her ash-blonde hair fanning out like pale weed against the porcelain. In the flat morning light, her skin has the translucent quality of unbaked clay. It is the silence that feels most violent, a vacuum where the hum of the London mansion block usually lives.
Helena reaches out, her fingers hovering over the surface. On Cassandra’s left hand, the antique sapphire wedding ring catches the sun, its gold band gleaming with a familiar, sickening light. It is the ring Helena reported stolen six weeks ago, the one Adrian swore was gone for good. She shouldn’t be wearing it. The sight of the heirloom on a dead woman’s finger is a puncture wound in the carefully curated logic of Helena’s life. Adrian’s phone continues to vibrate on the marble counter, unanswered and frantic.
She stands frozen, the damp heat of the room clinging to her cashmere coat. Every instinct screams for the telephone, yet her hand remains tethered to her side. There is a vibration in the floorboards, a mechanical pulse that signals the world outside is still moving. Downstairs, the heavy slam of the building's front door echoes up the stairwell.
