Page 1 of Bound By Crimson

Chapter One

What the Silence Left Behind

Murdered.

Her parents—gone just like that and the house had never been this quiet.

Not even in winter, when the snow pressed against the windows and muffled the world. Not even on the night her parents left for the trip to Europe, calling out goodbyes that drifted like smoke down the hallway.

This was a different kind of silence.

Thicker.

Deader.

A silence that knew it had won.

Lyric Dawson stood in the doorway of her parents’ bedroom, her arms folded tightly, bracing herself.

The room looked exactly the way it had the night they left.

A coffee mug sat forgotten on the bedside table, a dark ring staining the wood. A pair of sneakers were kicked carelessly under the chair. Her mother’s book—Wuthering Heights, spine cracked and battered—lay facedown on the bed like she’d just gotten up to answer the phone.

Lyric hadn’t touched any of it—not once.

She crossed the threshold, her footsteps muffled by the worn carpet.

The closet door creaked open when she tugged it. The scent of bergamot and old cotton spilled out—the quiet remains of ordinary days .

She was looking for something light. Something that still belonged to him.

Her father’s cardigan.

Lyric pushed aside scarves and sweaters, fingers skimming fabric, searching.

A scarf slipped free and fluttered to the floor.

As she bent to pick it up, she spotted something tucked behind the row of hanging clothes.

A cardboard box, medium-sized, the tape worn and curling at the edges. She shifted closer, curiosity nudging her forward.

She reached in, pulled it free, and sat cross-legged on the carpet.

The box was lighter than she expected.

Peeling back the tape carefully, she lifted the flaps.

Inside was a folded baby blanket—soft pink, delicately stitched with tiny music notes along the edges. It looked handmade, the kind of gift made with love.

Pinned to the blanket was a note, handwritten in slanted, unfamiliar script:

Her name is Lyric.

Please take care of her.

Lyric’s fingers trembled as she touched the paper.

She sat frozen for a moment, confusion spreading like cold water in her chest.

Beneath the blanket were a handful of papers, sealed inside a crinkling plastic sleeve.

She pulled them out, hands clumsy now, breath quick.

At the top of the first document were the words:

Certificate of Adoption

And there—typed neatly, under “ Given Name ”—

Lyric

Date of Birth: April 1 4

No surname.

No biological mother listed.

No biological father listed.

Only: Parents unknown.

The adoption was finalized when she was less than a year old.

Lyric stared at the papers until the letters blurred.

For a long time, she didn’t move.

The room seemed to tilt around her—the familiar bedspread, the soft whir of the ceiling fan, the framed photo still angled toward the door.

All of it felt wrong now.

Like a play she’d been acting in without knowing the script.

They had loved her.

Of that, she was certain.

No legal form could undo the bedtime stories, the kitchen dances, or the countless small moments that proved their love.

But somehow, sitting here now, it felt like she had lost them twice.

Once when their lives were stolen, and now again—to a truth she never knew was waiting.

She thought back to all the times she’d stared into the mirror, trying to find her mother’s softness or her father’s smile.

But there was always something… off. Her mother had a striking presence—fair skin, soft curls the color of autumn leaves, and gentle green eyes that always seemed to be smiling.

Her father was tall and rugged, with weathered features and sharp blue eyes that could either soften a room or silence it.

But Lyric didn’t share their coloring or their expressions.

Her own eyes were golden—unusual, warm, and bright, like sunlight hitting honey.

No one in her family had eyes like that.

A fresh pain opened up inside her, raw and aching, and too big to fit anywhere safe.

Not anger.

Just... sadness.

Why hadn’t they told her ?

Did they plan on telling her?

Were they waiting for the right time?

Were they protecting her from something?

She didn’t know.

And now, she would never have the chance to ask.

The silence pressed in again, heavier than before. Her throat burned. She felt like she was floating outside of her own body—like the room was real, but she wasn’t.

She wanted to scream. To cry. To run. To tell someone—anyone.

But there was no one left.

No mother to explain. No father to comfort.

No best friend to call and say , “You won’t believe what I just found.”

She wrapped her arms around herself, but it didn’t help. Nothing felt solid anymore.

Her whole life had cracked open... and she had no one to help her hold the pieces.

But she still had to go to work.

She still had to keep moving.

Because what else could she do?

Gently she refolded the blanket, tucked the note back inside the box, and closed it with a trembling hand before sliding it back into the closet.

Not because she was ready.

Because she had no choice.

Wiping her palms against her jeans, she stood.

She glanced around the room, her eyes landing on her father’s cardigan draped over the chair—what she’d been searching for before everything else had unraveled.

She crossed the room toward it, but as she passed the dresser, something caught her eye.

A white envelope.

Sitting quietly beside the mirror, like it had been waiting for her.

A faint layer of dust clung to the edges.

The paper was thick. The printing formal.

Just the clean, black lettering of a law office :

Edison Ashford, Attorney at Law

Her stomach dropped.

She knew exactly what it was.

For a moment, she considered leaving it—letting it collect dust like everything else they’d left behind.

But something stubborn moved her forward. She crossed the room and picked it up with numb fingers.

The letter that had started it all.

---

One Year Ago .

Her mother had twirled barefoot across the kitchen floor—the envelope clutched above her head like a prize.

The kitchen smelled like bacon, eggs, and sunshine—loud with the kind of happiness that made you forget to worry.

“Lyric, can you believe this? A trip! I didn’t even know I had a great uncle!”

Marianne spun in wide, giddy circles, her laugh filling every inch of the little house.

Her hair fell in loose curls, her skirt flowing, her joy so infectious that even Lyric had laughed along, spinning clumsily beside her.

At the kitchen table, Raymond leaned back in his creaky chair, arms crossed over his broad chest. A trace of beard stubble shadowed his jaw, and his kind, handsome eyes crinkled with a skeptical half-smile.

“Hon, we don’t even know what you inherited yet. Could be something small. We might be wasting our time going all the way to Europe.”

“Or it might be something really big,” Marianne said, her eyes sparkling. “We’ll never know what he left us if we don’t go.”

Lyric raised an eyebrow. “You mean... an actual inheritance? ”

“That’s what the lawyer said. There’s a will. We have to be there in person to hear it.”

He exhaled, shaking his head. “It’s going to be hard for me to get time off work.”

Lyric grabbed the envelope from her mother’s hands and read the name at the top.

“Edison Ashford,” she said. “I heard you’re not supposed to trust a man with two last names.”

Marianne swatted playfully at her hand. “Oh, stop it. I called. I spoke to the lawyer—they’re covering our travel expenses. There’s not much risk at all.”

Raymond still frowned. “I don’t know, Mare.”

“Please,” Marianne pleaded. “We never get a break like this. Never. Let’s just do it.”

He sighed, long and theatrical—but he wrapped his arms around her anyway.

“Okay, Mare,” he said, kissing her temple. “If it makes you happy, we’ll go.”

Lyric had rolled her eyes at their shamelessness, but her heart had felt full.

They were unstoppable, the two of them—bright and steady all at once.

Nothing could touch them.

Nothing could take them away.

---

Now.

Lyric opened her eyes, blinking against the sudden burn behind them.

The house was silent now.

No laughter.

No dancing.

Just the low, broken hum of the refrigerator echoing from down the hall—like the house was grieving, too.

Her parents had flown to Romania, landing in Bucharest first, then took a rented car into the countryside .

They had called her from a quiet, rural hotel. Her mother’s voice had been full of wonder.

“It’s beautiful here, sweetheart. The hills look like something from a storybook. We’ll call again soon.”

But they never called again.

Three days later, the police reached out.

Her parents had been found murdered in their hotel room. No signs of forced entry. No suspects. No clear motive.

The Romanian police called it random.

The American embassy had given their condolences.

At first, there had been voices—police, embassy staff, reporters. Words like investigation and next of kin had filled the quiet.

She had buried them beneath the old maple tree at the edge of Rosewood Cemetery—the only part of the last year that felt real.

But then... nothing.

The calls stopped. The world moved on.

But Lyric hadn’t.

A week after the funeral, Edison Ashford had called. His voice was cool and composed.

“I’m sorry for your loss, Ms. Dawson. There is one matter I need to make you aware of. Since your parents never arrived for the signing, the estate they were to inherit remains unclaimed.”

Lyric had barely heard him.

“I don’t care about the estate,” she’d whispered, voice raw. “I just want my parents back.”

There had been a pause.

“Of course. I’ll handle the necessary paperwork.”

And that was the last time she heard from him.

She slipped the letter carefully back onto the dresser where it had been waiting, draped her father’s cardigan over her shoulders, and pulled the sleeves down past her wrists.

It smelled faintly of engine grease and laundry soap. Familiar and comforting.

And something unmistakably Dad.

Grabbing her bag, she stepped into the pale spring sunshine.

The walk to town was long.

But it was better than standing still.