The building looked like it had given up a long time ago.

The bricks were the tired, bruised red of old wounds. The mortar sagged, spiderweb cracks running between windows that were choked with lace curtains so heavy they might have been there since the Nixon era. The street outside was too quiet, the kind of quiet that made sound travel in strange ways, like a whisper could drift three floors up.

Seren—dressed as Elena, a polished, neutral professional in an understated navy pantsuit—stood with one gloved hand raised toward the doorbell. The other hand was steadying the leather portfolio against her side, the perfect prop for a researcher working on a book about cold cases. Every detail was chosen to make her unremarkable. Invisible. Safe.

She didn’t feel safe.

The notepad in her purse, the one with the address scrawled in a hurried hand, felt heavier than paper should. She had followed it here from a lead that wouldn’t stop scratching at the back of her mind. This wasn’t about the Voss campaign. This was about her. Seren Kurtner.

The door opened barely an inch.

An old woman peered out, the chain lock holding the gap like a throat with something lodged in it. Her eyes flicked up and down the hallway, quick as the twitch of a nervous bird. It took Seren a second to recognize her, because the years had stolen the warmth and rounded edges from Lyra’s face, replacing them with hollows and lines carved deep by fear. Her hair was wiry gray now, pulled back too tight, and her lips were drawn in a thin, defensive line.

And then Lyra saw her.

The recognition was a jolt—small but visible, like a nerve firing. Seren saw it, felt it, and kept her own expression still.

“I’m sorry to bother you,” Seren began in Elena’s voice—professional, cordial, unobtrusive. “My name is Elena. I’m researching a book about high-profile cold cases. I was hoping you could tell me about the Kurtner family.”

Lyra’s gaze sharpened, and for a moment Seren thought the door would slam. Instead, the woman’s voice came in a rasp that felt worn out from repetition. “I don’t know anything about that. It was a long time ago.”

A lie, and not even a good one.

“I know,” Seren said gently. “But you were their nanny. You were close to them. Your perspective is important.”

The chain slid free. The door opened wide enough for Seren to slip inside.

The apartment smelled of time—old paper, dust, and the faint metallic tang of shut-in air. Blinds were drawn so tightly the daylight came in only as a strained glow. Every surface looked like it had been wiped down with too much force, as if cleanliness could keep danger away.

Lyra motioned to a couch whose upholstery sagged under the weight of years. She sat on the far end, leaving a gulf of space between them. Her hands smoothed her skirt over and over, the motion mechanical, restless.

“I was with the children,” Lyra said finally. “They were good children. Seren… she was sweet.”

She looked directly at Seren then, and something tightened between them. Lyra’s gaze lingered on her jawline, the slope of her cheek, the way she held herself. Seren could almost see the thought passing through her head—it’s her. She didn’t say it, but the silence swelled with it.

“Did anything seem strange before it happened?” Seren asked. “Visitors, arguments—anything unusual?”

Lyra’s eyes flicked to a framed photograph on the side table: the Kurtners. Her mother’s smile. Her father’s hand resting protectively on her shoulder. The little girl on her mother’s lap—gap-toothed, laughing. Seren looked away before the weight of it cracked her voice.

“There were many people in and out,” Lyra whispered. “The father… he was an important man. But there was a shadow.”

Seren’s fingers tightened on the pen she’d taken from her portfolio. “A shadow?”

“A man. The fiancé of the older daughter. He was…” She hesitated, as though the word itself might summon him. “…unsettling. The way he looked at the little one. At Seren.”

Seren’s heart gave a subtle kick, the same way it did when a puzzle piece suddenly slid into place. The memory of him was vague, blurred by the years, overshadowed by the obsession with Voss. She had filed Cassien away as a side character in the tragedy.

But Lyra’s voice was trembling, the fear not faded with time.

“He once said to me, ‘Talking can be an unsafe hobby.’” Her lips pressed into a thin, bloodless line. “He smiled when he said it. But his eyes… they were cold.”

The words sank into Seren like ice water. Unsafe hobby. Not a warning. A promise.

Her narrative—fifteen years of certainty that Voss was the monster—shifted. Tilted. The cracks weren’t just showing now; they were spreading.

“Did you see him after?” she asked.

Lyra’s head moved in a violent no. “No. Not once. He’s a monster. And the danger—” her gaze darted to the door, “—the danger is still out there. You shouldn’t be looking for it. Some things are best left in the dark.”

The room seemed to shrink. The air pressed down. Seren could hear Lyra’s breathing, quick and shallow, like a rabbit hearing the approach of paws.

She knew the signs of someone spiraling toward panic. If she pushed any harder, she’d lose her.

Seren stood, slipping the pen into her jacket pocket. “Thank you for your time, Lyra. You’ve given me a lot to think about.”

Lyra didn’t move. She just stared at the door as if expecting it to burst open.

Seren was halfway to the exit when Lyra spoke again, her voice catching on the edge of desperation. “You have your mother’s eyes. Be careful. The shadow is still there.”

Seren froze, her hand tightening on the doorknob.

It was confirmation. She didn’t have to ask how Lyra knew—she simply did. The recognition had been there the moment the door opened. Seren didn’t turn back, because she knew the older woman was close to breaking entirely.

She stepped into the hallway, her heels clicking in the muffled air. Each step away from that apartment felt heavier, as if Lyra’s warning had hooked itself into her spine.

Outside, the city noises rushed back in: the hiss of a bus, a distant car horn, the metallic clank of something being dropped in an alley. But even under all of it, Seren felt the weight of those last words. The shadow is still there.

Her whole life had been built on a single compass point—find Voss, make him pay. That compass had just spun wildly, pointing somewhere far more dangerous.

Cassien.

A predator who had been close enough to touch her, to watch her, when she was still small enough to be held in someone’s arms. A man who had slipped away into the dark without ever being hunted.

If Lyra was right, he wasn’t just still alive. He was still out there.

And predators didn’t forget the scent of prey.