CHAPTER THREE: THE ARCHIVE OF SILENCEThe glass house was a prism of moonlight and paranoia. After the quarry, the air in the estate felt different—thicker, as if the blood on the marble had finally given the transparent walls a skin. Rocco had disappeared into his subterranean office, leaving me with the iron-scent of the day clinging to my hair and the scarlet glow of the ruby burning against my collarbone.

I didn't go to the bath. I didn't wash the quarry dust from my skin. Instead, I went ...