Page 11 of Forbidden Fate

No lights on.

No movement behind the windows.

I look around and then slip into the side yard. I circle the house, checking angles, sightlines, anything that might give me a clue.

No security cameras that I can see. No alarms. No signs of life. Either she’s confident no one would ever come looking…or she doesn’t actually live here.

I make it to the backyard and continue scanning.

Aha! A window well. I crouch beside it, brushing dirt away from the glass, and peer inside.

I grip the edge and lower myself down carefully.

For a second, I hesitate. This is the moment where I can still walk away. Call Hawk. Call anyone.

I don’t.

I check the window. It’s unlocked. I open it and slide through, landing on the basement floor with a muffled oof.

The basement lights flick on with a soft click. I freeze for half a second, my heart leaping into my throat, before I realize they’re on a motion sensor.

I exhale slowly, forcing myself to relax, and then I look around. The basement space is finished with recessed lighting and dark hardwood floors. I inhale the smell of fresh paint.

But it’s empty. No furnishings at all. No boxes. No signs anyone has ever lived here.

I turn slowly, scanning the room again, slower this time.

Nothing.

“What the hell?” I whisper under my breath.

I move toward the stairs and walk up to the main floor.

Same thing. Pristine alabaster walls complete with wainscoting. And not a single piece of furniture.

A chill slides down my spine.

I force myself to keep moving room to room. Every single one is bare.

I take the stairs to the second floor, my pulse ticking with every step.

Eight bedrooms. Every single one empty. Closets and bathrooms all untouched.

“What is this place?” I say out loud.

I turn slowly, scanning the hallway again. I should leave. This isn’t where Belinda is. This isn’t⁠—

Something catches the corner of my eye.

A painting hangs at the end of the hallway. The only furnishing in the entire house. I step closer, something familiar needling me. The painting is tall and narrow, of a woman with dark hair and luminous green eyes wrapped in a flowing turquoise robe.

In her hand is a pomegranate.

My breath catches.

I’ve seen this before.

“Persephone,” I whisper.