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Chapter One

Bella

A loud banging sound pulls me from the deep confines of sleep. I sit up slowly in bed, trying to figure out the source through the haze in my head. I don’t remember where I am at first, and then the scratchy wool of the blanket helps me focus.

My father’s cabin. The guest room.

Another sound reaches me—footsteps, maybe? —and I jump out of bed.

Something’s wrong. Someone is in the house.

I grab my jacket and pull it over my silk nightgown, heading toward the door. As an afterthought, I grab the heavy flashlight on the nightstand, my hand shaking slightly as I hold it over my head.

Better this than nothing.

I swallow hard and push open the bedroom door, then tiptoe down the dimly lit hallway to the living room, my heart pounding loudly in my chest. I look around the little cozy cabin that used to be my father’s home. Everything looks intact—the wrapped artwork in the corner, the half-packed boxes, even the leftover slice of pizza from dinner just a few hours ago. Nothing seems out of place.

Did I imagine the noise?

Maybe the exhaustion of the last few days is finally messing with my head. I shouldn’t have taken those sleeping pills I found in Dad’s medicine cabinet, but it seemed like the only way to get some sleep and escape the crushing grief that is slowly eating me up.

I let out a soft sigh and start to turn around, but something catches my attention. The large landscape painting by the fireplace is hanging at an awkward angle, and what seems to be a streak of light is streaming out from the wall behind.

Are the pills really causing me to hallucinate?

Slowly, I make my way toward the painting, gripping the flashlight tighter with every step. As I reach it, I reach out to press my free hand against the wall behind, gasping in shock when it suddenly gives way. I enter the room beyond, forcing one leg in front of the other, and then stand in the middle of the room, staring in shock at the scattered paintings, overturned paint tubes, and ransacked drawers.

It wasn’t a hallucination. Someone was in here, and they left in a hurry.

How did an invader know about a private studio in my father’s house that I didn’t even know existed?

Maybe if you came home more often you would have known about it,my subconscious whispers.

And if you came home enough, you might have also noticed your father’s suicidal tendencies.

My heart clenches painfully with guilt and regret. But those feelings are useless now. I’m the most terrible daughter in the world.

I walk over to the stool in the corner, fighting back tears as I trace my hand over the wooden easel in front of it. I try to imagine my dad sitting on the stool, his heavy brows knitted in an adorable frown, hands moving smoothly over the canvas.

He was the best artist I know. And that’s why he was so damn successful.

My eyes fall on an old leather journal on the desk. As I pick it up, something falls out of it. I bend over to retrieve it from the floor—it’s a luxurious-looking access card with a bold inscription in gold:The Chapel.

The Chapel? What is that?

Without any kind of religious symbolism on the card, my best guess is that it’s some kind of exclusive club.

I turn the card around with a frown, but there’s nothing on the back. I glance down at the opened page of the journal, and right there in my father’s sprawling handwriting is written:

Chapel. Must be there. 08-22. 10pm.

And on the bottom right side of the page is an address that looks like it was scribbled in a rush.

Wheels start to turn in my head. I had my suspicions about my dad suddenly committing suicide, but there’s been no solid evidence to prove otherwise. With the break-in tonight, and this strange access card, maybe I can find a clue.

08-22. That’s tonight. I still have time.

Without a second thought, I rush out of the secret studio into the living room, quickly pulling the wall back into place. Then I hurry to my room, grab the first dress I find in the closet, and change quickly. Soon, I’m driving down the long dusty road in my father’s old Mustang.