Page 69 of No Longer Mine

Don snorted. “Bullshit. You don’t do nostalgia.”

He wasn’t wrong. I’d spent my life looking forward, cutting through obstacles with precision and force. I didn’t waste time on things that didn’t serve me.

“This doesn’t have to do with the redhead, does it?”

I’d been very selective over what I told Don about her. He’d seen me simmer in my rage toward her after I was sworn in when she was on the arm of that imbecile, Gavin Crenshaw. He’d seen me obsess over who she could be weeks before that, though I never gave in and told him she’d broken into my home.

“Everything about Scarlett is wiped. I have a feeling that she and her friend Oliver Christenson both attended there, and the only way to get my answers is going to be beyond its crumbling doors.”

The midday sun cast sharp shadows across the overgrown driveway as we pulled up to Vanewood Manor. The place was somehow even more unsettling in the light—its towering structure looming against the bright blue sky, vines clawing at the stone walls like they were trying to pull it back into the earth where it belonged.

Don let out a low whistle as he killed the engine. “Well. This is sufficiently creepy.”

I stepped out of the SUV, boots crunching against the gravel. The iron gates had rusted in place, standing open like an invitation—or a warning. The long, winding path up to the house was cracked with age, weeds growing in the fissures; nature was reclaiming what had been left behind.

“You sure this place isn’t condemned?” Don muttered, slamming the car door shut.

“Wouldn’t surprise me,” I murmured, taking in the structure. It was old money. The kind of place built to last, to house generations of the powerful and privileged. But now? It was a carcass of whatever it used to be.

I stepped forward, pushing past a rusted-out gate that hung from one hinge. A placard was mounted on a crumbling stone post—Vanewood Estate. The lettering was faded, chipped. I reached out, brushing my fingers over it.

I climbed the cracked front steps and pressed my hand against the door. The wood was warped, swollen from years of disrepair, but the handle turned easily.

I pushed it open. The smell hit me first.

Dust. Wood rot. Something else underneath it, something faded but sharp—like old memories trapped in the walls.

Don stepped in behind me, gaze sweeping over the foyer. “I hate this already.”

My eyes skimmed over the extensive drawing room and then just beyond the grand staircase to what looked like a common area. The floors were warped and buckling, but that wasn’t what caught my eye. It was the dust disturbed. Someone had walked through here recently. I crouched down to the floor and ran my finger over one of the footprints. Recently.

Don’s body tensed beside me, his hand instinctively hovering near his waistband—not that I needed him to use the gun, but I appreciated the instinct. His eyes flicked toward the grand staircase, then down the halls branching off the main room.

“How recent?” he asked, voice low.

I shrugged. “Maybe earlier today, maybe last week. I can’t really tell, but whoever it was is long gone now.” My eyes tracked the way one set of footprints went all the way into the commons, up the stairs, and down the other side. Whoever came was in a hurry to leave.

I followed the footprints into the next room. My eyes skipped over everything. It seemed like whoever was here only wanted to walk through and see. Nothing else was disturbed. I immediately marched to the grand fireplace on the side of the room and blew on the photographs placed there. Dust swirled aroundme as faces were revealed. Smiling faces of children playing instruments and painting. I didn’t recognize anyone.

I groaned with frustration as I moved on. I followed the footsteps back out of the common room and up one side of the grand staircase. Don followed close on my heels.

The footprints led straight down the hall, past crumbling doors with tarnished brass handles. The carpet was stiff with dust, but the tread marks were clear—a straight path to a door at the end of the corridor.

Don muttered behind me, “This place gives me the creeps.”

I ignored him, pausing in front of the door. The paint was chipped, the edges warped from time and neglect. I tested the handle. It turned with ease.

The door groaned as I pushed it open, the dim light from the hallway spilling into the room. The room had beds lining the walls. Each one was just a bed frame now, the mattresses long gone. Had all of the children lived here together?

The footprints continued to the one bed all the way at the end of the rows. The bed was shoved up against the wall, and in the posts were deep carvings… No, not carvings. Notches.

Dozens of them, maybe more, were etched into the frame with a steady, straight hand.

“What the hell is this?” Don muttered, stepping in beside me.

I didn’t answer. My fingers skimmed over the notches, the weight of them pressing into my chest like something heavy and unspoken. This wasn’t random vandalism. This was a record. A countdown. A survival tally. My eyes skimmed over the other bed frames; none of them had this. I pushed past Don and walked out of the room. There was nothing else in there that would show me or prove to me that she had been here.

“You know, you could always ask her,” Don said, and I chose to ignore him. What was the fun in that?