Philip unlocked the front door and stepped into the grand foyer. The air was warm, but it felt cold. It always felt cold.
He placed his keys on the marble console table. The click echoed through the high ceilings.
“Mrs. Gable?” he called out, expecting the stern, elderly housekeeper to appear and take his coat.
Silence.
That was odd. Mrs. Gable was clockwork. But then he remembered—he had sent Mrs. Gable to her sister’s for the holidays. He had hired a temporary service to handle the cleaning and the basic care for Lydia during the day while the night nurse, Brenda, slept.
Philip sighed. He didn’t care who was in the house, as long as they were quiet. He loosened his tie, the silk feeling like a noose around his neck. He needed a drink. The crystal decanter in the library was calling his name. It was the only way he could sleep without seeing the headlights of that truck.
He walked toward the library, his footsteps heavy on the hardwood. But then, he stopped.
His hand hovered over the door handle of the library.
He heard something.
It was faint, drifting down from the second floor, filtering through the spiraling staircase.
Thump. Thump. Thump.
A rhythmic, dull thudding.
Philip frowned. The night nurse wasn’t due to wake up until 7:00 PM. Lydia couldn’t move. The temporary maid—what was her name? Clara? Elena?—should be in the kitchen prepping dinner or gone for the day.
Then, he heard another sound.
A voice. A humming sound.
Philip’s heart gave a strange, painful lurch. He abandoned the library and walked to the bottom of the stairs. He looked up into the shadows of the second-floor landing.
Thump. Thump. Step. Thump.
It was coming from the nursery.
Panic, cold and sharp, spiked in his chest. Was someone hurting her? Was it an intruder? He hadn’t set the alarm yet.
He didn’t call out. He didn’t want to startle whoever—or whatever—was up there. He gripped the banister, his knuckles turning white, and began to climb. He moved silently, a skill he had learned over the last year of trying not to disturb a sleeping, silent child.
As he reached the top of the stairs, the sound became clearer. It was music. Not the classical Mozart for Babies that the doctors had recommended. Not the white noise machine that hummed 24/7.
It was… jazz?
Low, rhythmic, soulful jazz playing from a phone speaker. And accompanied by a voice. A woman’s voice, singing softly, not perfectly, but with a rich, warm texture.
“…chestnuts roasting on an open fire…”
Philip crept down the hallway. The door to Lydia’s room was ajar. A sliver of warm, golden light spilled out onto the dark carpet of the hall.
Philip approached the door. He told himself he was angry. He had given strict instructions: Feed her, change her, read to her softly. No loud noises. No overstimulation. Keep the environment controlled.
He reached the doorframe and peered inside.
His briefcase slipped from his hand and hit the floor with a heavy thud, but he didn’t even hear it.
Because what Philip Arden saw in that room made his world stop spinning.
Chapter 2: The Impossible Dance
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