By the time Michael’s car swept through the wrought-iron gates, they were already gliding open. The manicured lawn stretched out in flawless symmetry, every hedge trimmed to precision. It looked immaculate—unnaturally so.
Inside, the mansion was steeped in silence.
“Emily?” he called.
“Laura?” he shouted next, his voice echoing through the foyer as he searched for the nanny.
Nothing answered him.
He took the stairs two at a time, pulse hammering in his ears. Emily’s bedroom door—painted with tiny moons and silver stars—stood slightly ajar. A dim bedside lamp cast a weak, yellow glow across the walls.
Michael pushed the door open.
Emily lay curled on top of the covers with her back to him. Stuffed animals were scattered across the floor as if they had been dropped in a hurry. The air felt strangely chilled, though he could hear the heating system humming steadily.
He sat carefully on the edge of the bed. “Daddy’s here,” he said softly.
She turned toward him.
Her eyes were swollen, her lashes clumped from crying.
And then he saw it.
Just below the sleeve of her pajama top, on her left arm, there was a mark.
Not a bruise.
Not a scratch.
A burn.
Dark purple and uneven, its shape almost deliberate—nearly geometric, as though a symbol had been pressed into her skin.
His breath caught in his throat.
Behind her pillow, soaked deep into the fabric, spread a dark, sticky stain—reddish-black and faintly glossy in the lamplight. There was no metallic scent of blood.
“What is this?” he whispered.
Emily flinched when his fingers moved toward her arm. “Don’t, Daddy… it hurts.”
Tears slid down her cheeks.
“He came,” she murmured.
“Who came?” Michael asked, his voice unsteady.
“The shadow man,” she breathed. “He was big. And cold. He touched me… and then everything went dark.”
There were no signs of forced entry.