“Are you sure?”
No. I’m not. Not about anything anymore, but something about this feels more sinister than even my husband is capable of.
The wind shifts, rustling the edge of my dress.
And the box just sits there with a quietness that does nothing to calm my unease.
“Bring it here,” I say, voice quieter than I expect.
The butler obeys without question, lifting the white box carefully in gloved hands and holding it out so I can see inside. The black satin bow slips away far too easily.
Inside is a perfectly folded white dress shirt.
Pressed crisp, bone white, expensive, and placed so precisely that it looks almost familiar. And then I realise quickly that’s because it is. The left sleeve is folded forward, tucked neatly against the chest, and at the edge of the cuff, I see it.
The monogram.
FHR
My vision tightens. A ringing hum fills my ears.
That’s his shirt.
Fordham Huntington-Russell
Ford’s.
My brother’s.
The breath catches in my throat and stays there, stuck like a lump of glass. My hand trembles as I reach in and lift it.
Beneath the shirt, something small and heavy falls from the fold.
It hits the marble floor with a sound that doesn’t sit right.
A dull thud. A soft bounce. Then silence.
The object rolls once, twice, then settles on its side at the edge of the step.
The butler stiffens. “Mrs. Herron—look away.”
A security guard steps forward quickly, reaching to pull Dale and me back.
But it’s too late.
Dale sees it.
Her scream rips through the air, raw and wrong and animal. It echoes off the stone columns, snapping heads around in the ballroom, stopping the music mid-beat.
I don’t scream.
I just stare.
Because I see it too.
The severed pinky finger.
Still wearing the Brotherhood of Death signet ring.
