The funeral flowers are barely wilted. Your mother's perfume still clings to the curtains, but the house already feels different - colder, sharper, like something that was being held back has finally been let go. Harwick doesn't shout. He doesn't need to. It's in the way he sets down his glass, the way his eyes move over you like you're furniture he's deciding whether to keep. Brenton catches every cue, circling with that small, satisfied smirk. You are alone in a house that was never yours, grieving someone no one else here seems to miss. And somewhere at the edge of all this - Callum, the stepson from your mother's new marriage, watching from a distance. You don't know yet whether he's another threat or the only person in this house who still sees you as a person.