CHAPTER 1: White Columns, Cold Stones

Caldwell House looked peaceful from the road, which was how expensive houses usually lied.
White columns rose above the front lawn. A second-floor balcony stretched across the facade like a stage built for summer photographs and charity speeches. Below it, on the dark landscaping stones, Nora Whitacre lay in a cream dress with one arm bent carefully across her ribs.
She was breathing. That was the first mercy.
The second was that she was awake enough to know who had not come running.
Dorian Caldwell stood on the balcony above her, both hands gripping the rail, his blue shirt bright against the white banister. His mouth was open, but no sound reached her clearly. At the front doors, his mother, Marion, stood beside a young woman in black, both frozen in the careful posture of people deciding whether witnesses were useful or dangerous.
Nora tasted rain, stone dust, and humiliation.
Then she heard sirens turning into the drive.