HE CAME HOME TO FIND HIS SIX-YEAR-OLD WASHING EVERYONE'S DISHES — THEN HER MOTHER'S NAME CAME OUT OF AN ENVELOPE

Mauricio froze in the doorway, staring at the piece of paper resting perfectly on the leather blotting pad.

He had locked the house. The security system was fully engaged. No one had been inside since they left that morning.

He walked slowly toward the desk, his heart hammering a frantic, terrifying rhythm against his ribs. He reached out with a trembling hand and picked up the drawing.

It was rendered in the same bright, heavy strokes of crayon as the previous picture. It showed the tall man with dark hair, holding hands with the little girl with the big smile.

But the third figure—the woman in red with the crescent moon and diamond symbol—was no longer standing off to the side.

In this drawing, the woman was holding the little girl's other hand. And she was standing directly inside the house.

Mauricio felt the blood drain completely from his face. He flipped the paper over rapidly.

There were no words written on the back. Just a single, perfectly drawn crescent moon.

Suddenly, the heavy grandfather clock in the hallway began to chime, signaling midnight.

As the final, echoing chime faded into the silent house, the front doorbell rang.

A sharp, piercing trill that shattered the quiet of the night.

Mauricio didn't reach for the door. He reached into the top drawer of his desk, pulling out a heavy, matte-black handgun he had kept hidden for emergencies. He checked the chamber, the metallic click sounding impossibly loud in the empty study.

He walked slowly down the hallway, keeping the gun hidden behind his leg.

The doorbell did not ring again. Whoever was out there was simply waiting. Patient. Expectant.

Mauricio reached the front door. He didn't look through the peephole. He gripped the cold brass handle, threw the deadbolt back with a loud clack, and pulled the heavy oak door open.

The freezing November wind whipped across the porch, carrying the scent of rain and dead leaves.

Standing in the shadows of the porch, illuminated only by the faint, yellow glow of the streetlamp, was a woman.

She wore a long, dark red wool coat that fell gracefully to her ankles. Her dark hair cascaded over her shoulders in wild, damp waves. Around her neck, glinting in the faint light, rested a heavy silver necklace—a crescent moon overlapping a diamond.

Mauricio stared at her, his mind struggling to process the impossible image standing on his doorstep.

She looked exactly like the photograph in the investigator's file. The face of a ghost.

"Camilla?" Mauricio whispered, his voice cracking with sheer disbelief.

The woman looked up. Her eyes were dark, haunted, and filled with an ancient, unbearable sorrow. She looked at the man who had just destroyed the empire that ruined her life. She looked at the man who had loved her child when no one else would.