Page 130 of This Life of Mine

Daylight exposes everything. There are fewer places to disappear, fewer mistakes you can afford to make. Becoming a shadow takes patience, timing, and knowing where people aren’t looking.

Fortunately, I’ve had years of practice.

Somewhere in the distance, water trickles from an ornamental fountain. Beyond that, nothing. No voices. No footsteps. No movement.

Good.

Reese confirmed David and Elinor left more than an hour ago for a luncheon at their country club. No groundskeepers or cleaning crew right now.

The estate is empty—the way I like it.

I move between pools of light, careful to never cross directly through them. To an observer, it would look like nothing more than shifting shadows and moving branches.

The study sits on the first floor. I already know the route. I’ve studied the floor plans and reviewed security footage to estimate the timed camera rotations.

The work happened long before today. Today is execution.

Most people think breaking into a house is about locks and alarms. It isn’t. It’s about timing. Knowing when people leave, like the maids and personal cooks. Knowing when they’ll return. Understanding their routines better than they do.

The lock on the side entrance gives way in less than thirty seconds. The door opens and I slip inside and close it behind me without a sound.

The house feels different from the outside. Just the quiet ticking of an expensive grandfather clock somewhere deep in the house.

I move through a corridor, make a turn, then another hallway. The office door appears where it should. Locked as expected too.

The bypass tool disappears into the lock. A few careful adjustments, then a soft click. The mechanism releases and the door swings inward.

The room smells of leather, old paper, and expensive wood polish.

I step into the room and shut the door.

Floor-to-ceiling bookshelves line the walls, filled with leather-bound volumes that look more decorative than read. Family photographs sit among them in polished silver frames.

I move slowly past them, trying to spot anything purposefully hidden.

David and Elinor at some charity gala. Cole standing between his sisters at a graduation. Grandchildren on a beach somewhere. A carefully curated history of wealth, family, and appearances.

Then I stop. One photograph catches my attention.

It’s not professionally staged like the others. It’s a newspaper clipping. The frame is simple compared to the others, almost worn from age.

I step closer. It’s Lina.

The article announces the grand opening of Enchanted Nook. She’s standing in front of the shop, smiling beneath the bookstore sign. Proud and hopeful.

My chest tightens unexpectedly. Of all the photographs in this room, this is the one that doesn’t belong. Or maybe it’s the only one that does.

I stare at it for several seconds. People don’t frame newspaper clippings by accident. They frame moments that matter. Moments they’re proud of and want to remember.

The frame sits near David’s desk instead of the family shelves, positioned where he’d see it every day. Displayed.

My gaze drifts over the room again. Every other photograph tells the story David wants the world to see. This one feels different. Personal.

I think about Lina’s stories. The years of neglect. The manipulation. The way the Allister name follows every painful memory. Yet here sits a photograph of her bookstore, carefully preserved among his most valued possessions.

A man doesn’t display a picture like this if he hates someone. He doesn’t keep it within arm’s reach if he’s rooting for their failure. And he sure as hell doesn’t frame it if he’s plotting their death.

“Alex.” Reese’s voice crackles.