Chapter 1
The thunder rolled over the hills so hard that the old windows of Blackwood House shook in their frames.
Claire Holloway had been standing in the kitchen, holding a mug she had forgotten to drink from, when she heard the scream.
Not the wind. Not the storm. Emma.
Claire dropped the mug.
It hit the stone floor and shattered as she ran.
The back door banged against the wall behind her. Rain struck her face like thrown gravel. The garden beyond the terrace was almost black, lit only in violent white flashes every few seconds.
“Emma!”
Another cry came from near the hedges.
Claire sprinted across the lawn.
Then lightning tore across the sky.
For one impossible second, she saw everything.
Her six-year-old daughter on her knees in the mud.
A massive black hound standing over her.
And Marcus Vale ten yards away beneath the cedar tree.
The animal was enormous. Too large, Claire thought wildly, to be a normal dog. Its shoulders seemed almost level with Emma’s chest. Rain flattened its black coat against a body built like something bred for war. Its eyes reflected amber in the lightning, making them look as if they glowed.
Claire did not think.
She threw herself between the animal and her daughter.
“Back!”
The hound stopped.
Not hesitated.
Stopped.
Its body went still.
Claire’s arms spread instinctively, shielding Emma.
“Mom,” Emma sobbed.
“I’m here.”
The dog stared at Claire.
Behind it, Marcus moved.
“Don’t move,” he said.
Claire turned her head.
Marcus stood in the rain wearing a dark wool coat as if he had walked outside expecting weather, not chaos.
“What is that?”
“I don’t know.”
Emma’s fingers dug into the back of Claire’s sweater.
“He called it.”
Marcus’s face changed.
“What?”
Emma pointed at him.
“He called it, Mom.”
“That’s enough,” Marcus snapped.
Claire looked at him.
The tone was wrong. Too fast. Too sharp.
“Enough?”
“She’s frightened. She doesn’t know what she heard.”
Emma cried harder.
“You whistled.”
Marcus laughed once.
“Claire, look at the weather. She probably heard anything.”
Lightning flashed again.
Silver glinted against his chest.
A chain.
No.
A whistle.
Small. Polished. Hanging beneath his open collar.
Claire stared at it.
Marcus saw where she was looking and reached toward it.
Claire moved first.
She crossed the muddy space between them in two steps and ripped the whistle free.
“Claire!”
She put it to her lips and blew once.
The sound was thin and high.
The hound turned immediately.
Not toward Claire.
Toward Marcus.
Every muscle in its body shifted. Its head lowered. Its ears lifted.
Marcus went pale.
The storm seemed to disappear around Claire.
No rain. No thunder. No garden.
Only Marcus’s face.
Only the dog looking at him.
Only Emma’s tiny hand locked around Claire’s wrist.
“You know it,” Claire said.
Marcus lifted both hands.
“You don’t understand.”
Claire’s voice dropped.
“Then explain.”
The hound took one step toward Marcus.
He looked at the whistle.
“Don’t blow it again.”
That was enough.
Claire backed toward Emma.
“Inside.”
Marcus stepped forward.
“Claire, wait.”
“Stay away from us.”
“Listen to me.”
“Emma. Inside.”
The child scrambled to her feet.
The hound did not follow.
That was the second thing Claire noticed.
The first was that it obeyed the whistle.
The second was that it watched Marcus for permission.
Claire got Emma through the terrace doors and locked them.
Marcus remained outside. So did the animal.
Through the rain-streaked glass, he stood facing it.
Then Marcus raised two fingers.
The hound sat.
Claire stopped breathing.
Emma whispered, “See?”
Marcus turned.
He realized they were watching.
For one second, all pretense vanished.
Then he lowered his hand.
The hound remained still.
Claire grabbed her phone.
No signal.
Blackwood House had poor reception during good weather. During storms, it might as well have been underground.
The landline.
She ran toward the study.
Dead.
Of course.
The storm had taken it.
Emma stayed so close she nearly stepped on Claire’s heel.
“Did he hurt you?”
Emma shook her head.
“The dog?”
“No.”
“Did it bite you?”
“No.”
“What happened?”
Emma’s lips trembled.
“I was in the greenhouse.”
“Why?”
“Marcus said you were looking for me there.”
Claire went cold.
“I was in the kitchen.”
“I know.”
“Then?”
“He said go see.”
“Marcus told you?”
Emma nodded.
“What happened next?”
“The door shut.”
“What door?”
“The greenhouse.”
Claire pictured the old glass structure near the lower garden. It had a heavy iron latch that sometimes stuck.
“Were you locked in?”
“I think.”
“How did you get out?”
“The other door.”
The greenhouse had a narrow service exit leading toward the hedges.
Emma wiped rain from her face.
“When I came out, I heard the whistle.”
Claire looked toward the terrace.
Marcus was gone.
The hound too.
Her stomach tightened.
“Then the dog came?”
Emma nodded.
“Did it chase you?”
“Yes.”
“Did it touch you?”
“No.”
“Why were you on the ground?”
“I slipped.”
Claire knelt.
Mud covered Emma’s yellow raincoat. One knee was torn. There was a red scrape on her palm.
No bite. No claw marks. No punctures.
That did not make Claire feel better.
It made the dog seem more trained.
Controlled.
Capable of terrifying a child without actually harming her.
“Did Marcus say anything?”
Emma’s eyes dropped.
“Before?”
“Yes.”
“He said maybe next time I’d listen.”
Claire felt something inside her change.
Marcus had been her husband for eleven months.
He had entered her life two years earlier, after Claire inherited Blackwood House from her aunt Evelyn.
He was charming without being loud. Educated. Patient. He restored old properties and knew enough about architecture to talk about the estate without making Claire feel like a fool for owning something she could barely afford to maintain.
He had been gentle with Emma.
At least, Claire believed he had.
There had been small moments.
Emma refusing to be alone with him.
Emma saying Marcus watched her when Claire wasn’t looking.
Emma asking why Marcus always knew where she had been.
Claire had dismissed those things as adjustment.
Emma’s father had died when she was three. Marcus was the first serious relationship Claire had allowed into their home after that. She had wanted it to work.
That desire now felt like evidence against her.
A sound came from the hallway.
Claire stood.
Marcus entered through the side door.
Without the dog.
He was soaked.
His hair lay flat against his forehead.
“Where is it?” Claire asked.
“Gone.”
“You commanded it.”
“I calmed it.”
“You told me you didn’t know it.”
“I panicked.”
Claire laughed.
The sound surprised her.
“You panicked?”
“Claire.”
“You sent Emma to the greenhouse.”
“No.”
“She says you did.”
“She misunderstood.”
“You called the dog.”
“I didn’t.”
She held up the silver whistle.
His gaze changed.
“Then why does this work?”
He looked tired. Not guilty.
Claire hated that about him.
Marcus always looked reasonable. Even when she was furious, he had a way of making her feel as if she were the person losing control.
“It’s a dog whistle.”
“I figured that out.”
“I use it for strays around the property.”
“Strays?”
“There are feral dogs in the valley.”
“That animal sat when you lifted your hand.”
Marcus’s eyes hardened.
“Because it has been trained by someone.”
“Someone like you?”
“No.”
Claire stepped closer.
“Whose dog is it?”
“I don’t know.”
Emma spoke from behind her.
“His.”
Marcus looked past Claire.
“Emma, stop.”
Claire turned so fast he actually stepped back.
“Do not tell my daughter to stop.”
His jaw tightened.
“She is repeating things she doesn’t understand.”
“She understands you scared her.”
“I did not scare her.”
“You locked her out there.”
“No.”
“The greenhouse door shut behind her.”
“It sticks in wet weather.”
“And the dog arrived after you whistled?”
“I did not whistle.”
Emma shouted, “You did!”
Thunder cracked.
She jumped.
Claire reached for her.
Marcus rubbed both hands over his face.
“We are all upset.”
“No,” Claire said. “You are caught.”
Silence.
Marcus’s expression flattened.
That frightened her more than anger would have.
“You think I tried to have a dog attack a child?”
“I think you know that animal.”
“That is not the same thing.”
“It is tonight.”
Marcus took a slow breath.
“Give me the whistle.”
“No.”
“Claire.”
“No.”
His eyes moved from the whistle to Emma.
Then back.
That was all.
A glance.
But Claire saw calculation.
She picked up a heavy iron fireplace poker from beside the hall hearth.
Marcus stared.
“You’re being ridiculous.”
“Go to the east wing.”
“This is my house too.”
“No. It’s mine.”
The words came out before she had planned them.
Legally, Blackwood House belonged solely to Claire. Her aunt had left it in a trust that excluded spouses.
Marcus hated that clause. He had called it insulting.
Claire had thought he was joking.
Now she wondered.
Marcus stepped closer.
“Do not do this because a frightened child told you a story.”
Claire’s grip tightened on the poker.
“She is not a story.”
For the first time, Marcus looked genuinely angry.
Then his face smoothed again.
“Fine.”
He walked away.
Claire waited until she heard the east-wing door close.
Then she pushed a chair beneath the hallway handle.
Emma watched.
“Are we leaving?”
Claire looked toward the storm.
The road down the mountain had flooded twice that year. In heavy weather, fallen branches often blocked it.
“Yes.”
“Now?”
“As soon as we can.”
Emma nodded.
Then she looked at the whistle in Claire’s hand.
“Mom?”
“What?”
“That’s not the first one.”
Claire went still.
“What do you mean?”
“I saw more.”
“Where?”
“In Marcus’s room.”
Claire’s heart started pounding.
“How many?”
Emma held up both hands.
“A lot.”
The east wing contained Marcus’s study. He kept it locked. Claire had respected that privacy.
She suddenly hated herself for respecting it.
“Did you go inside?”
Emma nodded nervously.
“One time.”
“When?”
“Last week.”
“Why?”
“I was looking for Mr. Buttons.”
Her stuffed rabbit.
Claire remembered. They had found it later on the library stairs.
“What did you see?”
Emma lowered her voice.
“Whistles. Collars. Pictures.”
“What pictures?”
“Dogs.”
“Anything else?”
Emma hesitated.
“Me.”
Claire felt the room tilt.
“Pictures of you?”
Emma nodded.
“Sleeping.”
The fireplace seemed to go cold behind Claire.
“Are you sure?”
“One was me in my bed.”
Claire stared toward the east wing.
The storm rattled the windows.
Marcus had photographs of Emma sleeping.
He had whistles.
Collars.
A trained black hound.
And he had sent Emma into the garden minutes before the animal arrived.
Claire reached for her phone again.
Still no signal.
She looked toward the mudroom.
The car keys were gone.
She had left them on the hook.
Marcus must have taken them.
Claire checked the back of the cabinet.
Her aunt’s old Land Rover had a spare key hidden in a ceramic jar.
Still there.
She almost cried from relief.
“We’re going.”
Emma grabbed her backpack.
Claire opened the mudroom door.
Then stopped.
Something rested on the step.
A black leather dog collar.
Wide. Heavy. Wet with rain.
A brass tag hung from it.
Claire bent without touching it.
The tag had one word engraved on the front.
MORRIGAN.
On the back was an address.
Not Blackwood House.
A veterinary facility twenty miles away.
Claire took a photograph with her phone.
Then lightning flashed.
Across the lawn, at the edge of the trees, two amber eyes appeared.
The black hound stood watching the house.
Not attacking.
May you like
Waiting.
And from somewhere inside the east wing, a whistle answered.
