The family portrait was gone. In its place hung a massive oil painting of Vanessa Cole—his current wife—posed flawlessly in a white dress, expression calm and distant, like she owned the air in the room. Adrian’s jaw clenched.
“Diane?” he called out, voice echoing off the polished surfaces. “Diane Turner?”
The housekeeper appeared from the kitchen doorway, apron in hand. Her shoulders were hunched, her hands twisting the fabric like she was trying to wring out fear.
She didn’t meet his eyes. “Welcome home, Mr. Cole,” she murmured.
Adrian stepped toward her. “Where’s Hannah?”
Diane’s lower lip trembled. She looked past him, toward the glass doors leading to the backyard.
“She’s… outside, sir.”
Adrian didn’t wait for another word. He strode down the hall, the sound of his steps loud and lonely. He pushed the glass door open—
And the world stopped.
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