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“I was forbidden to come any earlier.”

“Forbidden?”

He nodded, but said nothing, allowing her to absorb the news.

“But…” She frowned, skepticism warring with the desire to believe.

Stupid in many ways, naive in others. Believing often led a person into being deceived. Her eyes narrowed. Was Minador a con-artist? Over the last few months, she’d met a number of people who preferred grifting to getting a real job. Now she knew what to look for, how to spot a conman, and escape the net one cast. But as she looked at Minador, she couldn’t discount him. He seemed more than just sincere. He seemed like a guy standing in certainty. Everything about him rang true, which was as upsetting as it was intriguing.

Setting her hand on the desktop, she leaned forward, arm supporting her weight, palm flat against cold metal. Truly welcomed the solidness. She needed it to ground her, to help keep her head in the game. “My birthday was a month ago.”

“I am aware. Preparations needed to be made.”

“What kind?”

“In this, I’m afraid, I can be of no help. You must find out for yourself. In the meantime, we must see to the paperwork.”

Truly jerked upright. “The what?”

“Documents must be signed if you are to receive your inheritance — the house and funds your great-aunt left you,” he said, setting his briefcase on her desk.

Leather scraped against steel, making her tense as he unbuckled the double clasps and flipped the bag open. With great authority, he withdrew a set of skeleton keys along with a thick file folder and set official-looking papers down between them.

“Please take a seat, my dear. No time to lose. The sooner this is done, the safer for all.”

The safer for all.

Truly chewed on that for a moment before curiosity grabbed hold.

She sat down.

He began to explain, flipping through the documents, unearthing proof of her identity, convincing her of his veracity one page at time. After what seemed like minutes, but was no doubt hours, he pointed to the bottom of the last page and asked her to sign. Her gaze glued to the solid line, she put pen to paper. Ink crawled across the white expanse. A quiver of unease slithered up her spine. Call her crazy. Call it a promotion, but with the last loop of her signature, she knew everything had changed… and something terrible was about to happen.

3

THE HOUSE ON ISADORE STREET

Holding a ring of skeleton keys, Truly stood on the sidewalk opposite a house that had seen better days. In the early morning light, she studied the architecture, then turned her attention to the broad-sweeping crescent that harbored six other homes. Surrounded by silence, she picked over the details, letting her gaze roam before returning it to the Gothic monstrosity.

Old, sitting among ancient. Neglected, sitting among well-loved. Untapped potential, overshadowed by sagging eaves, peeling paint, and a mess of overgrown vines and unruly shrubs, standing under the watchful eye of two towering, old-growth oaks.

The ugly duckling in a house-proud neighborhood full of historical mansions.

Uncared for, like her.

A bit forlorn, like her.

In need of repair — just like her.

Disbelief warred with elation. A second chance gifted to her by a woman she’d never met and, until a few hours ago, hadn’t known existed. Unbelievable. The turn her life had taken in a few hours was startling. Too fairy tale-ish to be true, if not for the paperwork tucked inside the camera bag hanging from her shoulder.

She breathed deep, held it a moment, then let it go, relishing the chill in the air, and scanned the Victorian again. It wasn’t fancy. Didn’t boast a ton of ornate moldings. Didn’t have an elegant gate surrounded by scrolling fence work, like its neighbors. Then again, it didn’t need the cage. Its solemn austerity (the chipped brick façade, faded moldings, and black shutters) said everything the architect intended it to —no need to fence us in… or you out.

Her focus jumped to the entrance.

A generous porch slashed across the front of the house. A stone path, uneven and worn, led to wide steps, pointing the way to double doors. Stained-glass windows looked out at the street like eyes that saw everything and didn’t like any of it. Spooky, with a healthy dose of eerie. A house with attitude, a bit of snarl, some teeth to go along with its long-time neglect.

Her lips curved.