"The High Priest just messaged," Julian announced, glancing up from his phone. "He is thirty minutes out."
"I thought we agreed on nine o'clock," I said, stacking the velvet napkins on the catering table.
"The High Priest keeps his own hours, Mrs. Monroe. Do you have the sacred oil?"
"Not yet. I'll get it."
"Please do. We cannot start the coming-of-age blessing without the anointment."
"Are the Monroe cousins arriving on time?" I asked, trying to steer the conversation away from his rising panic.
"They landed an hour ago," Julian replied, not looking up from his screen. "I sent the cars. They will be here before the ceremony."
"Good. Kael wants the family seated in the front rows."
"I know the seating chart, Mrs. Monroe. My concern is the ceremony itself. The oil. I need it."
"I understand."
"Do you? Because if the High Priest walks in and the altar is empty, my reputation takes the hit."
"I said I will get it, Julian."
Lyra stepped into the foyer, holding the skirt of her blue silk dress off the floor. The heavy emerald rested against her collarbone, catching the chandelier light. "Why is everyone so tense?"
"Nobody is tense," I assured her, forcing a warm smile. "Julian is just organizing the timeline."
"I am thorough," Julian corrected sharply.
Lyra touched the gemstone at her throat. "Dad is looking for you, Mom. He said the caterers brought the wrong champagne."
"He can handle the champagne. I need to go to his study."
"Do you want me to come with you?"
"No. Stay here. Don't get dust on your hem before the photographer arrives."
"It's just a dress."
"It's custom silk. Stay with Julian."
"He usually keeps that room locked," Lyra pointed out, dropping her skirt.
"He unlocked it for me this morning."
"Alright. Hurry back."
I walked away from them, heading down the east corridor. The noise of the party planners faded with every step. The silence in this wing of the house felt heavy.
I pushed open the thick oak door to Kael's study.
"Just get the vial and leave," I muttered to myself.
I crossed the room, my flats sinking into the plush carpet. I reached the massive mahogany desk in the center of the room. Kael’s sanctuary.
"Locked," I said, testing the top drawer out of habit. "Always locked."
I crouched down and moved to the bottom right panel.
"Except for today."
I pulled the brass handle. The drawer slid open smoothly on its tracks. Stacks of financial ledgers filled the front. I shoved them aside, digging toward the back. My fingers brushed against a soft velvet pouch.
"Got it."
I lifted the pouch. It felt unusually heavy. As I pulled it clear of the drawer, the drawstring snagged on something flat and stiff tucked underneath the glass bottle.
A thick sheet of folded paper dragged out alongside the velvet, slipping over the edge of the wood and landing on the floor.
"Great," I sighed.
I set the oil on the desk and bent down to retrieve the paper.
The moment my fingers touched it, I paused. The texture wasn't standard printer paper. It was thick, rough parchment. The exact kind Kael used during his military deployments.
I stood up, holding the folded square.
"What is this doing under the ceremony items?"
I flipped it open.
The faded ink formed a sprawling grid. Topography lines. Elevation markers. Sector boundaries.
"A border patrol map," I whispered.
The date stamped in the bottom right corner glared back at me. Ten years ago. The exact month Kael brought Lyra into our home.
"You found her in the southern trenches," I recited his old story out loud, tracing the bottom edge of the map. "Sector four. Mud and rain."
I scanned the southern grid. Nothing. No markings.
My eyes drifted upward, scanning the northern sectors.
A thick, aggressive red circle dominated the upper right quadrant.
"What is that?"
I leaned closer, squinting at the small text printed beneath the red ink.
Point Reyes.
My heart slammed against my ribs.
"No."
I placed my index finger directly over the red circle. The rough parchment scraped against my skin, sending a violent tremor up my arm. My fingers started to shake uncontrollably.
"Point Reyes," I repeated, the sound hollow in the empty room.
The jagged coastline. The steep drop.
The exact cliff where my sister Elena fell.
"Fifty miles," I choked out.
I looked at the red circle. Then my eyes darted to the velvet pouch containing the sacred oil. Then back to the map.
"You weren't at the trenches."
My chest seized. The air trapped in my lungs refused to move. The rhythmic rise and fall of my breathing shattered, replaced by short, frantic gasps.
I stared at the red ink until it looked like fresh blood.
Ten years. A decade of believing my husband rescued a nameless orphan from a war-torn border. A decade of raising Lyra, loving her, ignoring the small inconsistencies in Kael's timeline.
The emerald necklace flashing in the vanity mirror.
The tiny, invisible chip near the top prong.
The black calfskin shoe shoved deep under my daughter's bed.
A harsh, ugly laugh tore out of my mouth. The sound shocked me. I should be crying. I should be screaming. Instead, this broken, manic noise echoed off the walls.
"A coincidence," I mocked his smooth, unbothered voice from earlier. "Just an estate sale."
My legs gave out. The strength vanished from my muscles instantly.
I crashed forward, slamming my hip against the edge of the mahogany desk. I gripped the wooden lip with both hands, using the heavy furniture to keep myself upright. My knuckles turned white under the strain.
"He was there," I told the quiet room. "He was at the cliffs."
He didn't find Lyra in the mud. He found her at Point Reyes.
Or worse. He took her from there.
"Elena," I whispered.
Did she fall? Or was she pushed?
I dragged the map closer, my vision swimming. I needed to hide this. I needed to confront him. I needed to get Lyra out of this house.
I reached for the folded edge of the parchment.
Thud.
A heavy footstep struck the hardwood floor in the hallway.
I froze.
Thud. Thud.
The rhythmic, heavy tread approached the study.
"Mom?" Lyra's voice floated from the foyer, distant and muffled. "Julian needs you!"
The footsteps didn't stop. They moved closer, bypassing the kitchen, bypassing the living room.
Heading straight for the east wing.
I snatched the map off the desk. My hands shook so violently I tore a small piece of the corner. I shoved the parchment toward the open bottom drawer.
The footsteps halted right outside the closed oak door.
A dark shadow blocked the sliver of light beneath the threshold.
I shoved the velvet pouch of oil on top of the crumpled map and slammed the drawer shut.
The brass handle of the study door turned halfway down.
