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My current demons are enough. The last thing I need is the old ones, too.

I stop at the top of the curved drive, directly in front of the steps that lead to the double doors, and throw the car into park, releasing a long breath.

“He’s not here. The house is empty.”

At least, empty of the living.

The past will never die in Whitley Manor, only haunt those who dare step foot inside it, but I don’t have a choice anymore. That lure of potential safety finally allows me to turn off the car, step out, grab the two suitcases from the trunk that contain everything I own, and approach the doors when the decades of avoidance want me to run screaming in the other direction.

The familiar twin golden lion knockers sit squarely in the middle of each heavy wooden door. As a child, I always loved them. I pretended they were Aslan and that the world beyond the doors was Narnia, not the real one I had to live in. But now, they seem to stare at me with judgmental eyes, as if they know my secrets and why I’m really here.

Not because I wanted to come home. Not because Father died. Not even because I inherited this place. Only because there were no other options.

Avoiding their gazes, I reach into my purse and pull out the old skeleton key that unlocks these doors and every interior one—an antiquated piece of history Father refused to replace with something more updated.

For good reason.

He knew what gives me some sense of relief now.

That this key is one of only two that can access the house—and the other is safely in the hands of the sole person I’ve ever really trusted.

The small piece of metal sits heavy in my hand with the weight of everything that has happened behind these doors and with what opening them means.

I’ve lost the battle of wills.

The old man may be dead, but he always said I would come crawling back. And he was right.

I’ve been beaten down, battered by life, and this place is my only potential salvation.

My hand trembles inserting the key into the hole and turning it.

Click.

In the quiet evening, it makes me flinch. A learned response to years of hearing it. Something I’m not sure I’ll ever be able to untrain from my brain because it was the sound of my prison being secured.

But now I welcome what it will mean once I’m inside it again.

I hold my breath, grasp the handle, and push into Whitley Manor for the first time in two decades.

The scent of ancient wood, old, expensive leather, the lemon cleaner Eliza always favored, and a faint hint of cigar smoke I’ve always associated with the man who ruled his empire from this fortress hits me.

I’ve always heard that smells are the strongest triggers for memories, but I never believed it until this very moment. They invade my lungs while all the memories I’ve tried so hard to keep buried come barreling to the forefront of my brain.

My legs wobble slightly as I step into the grand foyer beneath the massive crystal chandelier. I reach for the switch on the wall and flick it up.

Light reflects brilliantly across the white Italian marble tile beneath my feet and off the rich mahogany twin staircases and railings that wind up to the second-floor landing.

I nudge the door closed behind me and turn the lock. The click is almost deafening in the deathly silence of Whitley Manor, and despite my best efforts not to, I flinch again.

It seems fitting considering why I’m here.

The old man is dead, and so is my life outside these doors.

All the reasons I was happy to leave so long ago rush back, tightening my chest as I move deeper into the house, leaving my bags sitting on the golden lion inlaid in the rotunda floor. The Whitley family crest proudly displayed where anyone walking in can see a statement of whose den you’re entering the moment that door closes behind you.

I slide the key back into my purse and set it on the small marble table in the foyer before I face my past. But it seems I have to face myself in the mirror hanging on the wall in front of me first.

The person staring back at me might as well be a complete stranger.