Chapter 8

The Lund estate had not changed in the eight years since I'd walked out its iron gates at eighteen with a duffel bag and a bank account full of bribes. Same limestone facade stretching wide and pale against the autumn sky like a mausoleum with better landscaping. Same row of perfectly trimmed boxwoods lining the drive. Same brass lion's-head knocker on the front door, polished to an obscene gleam.

The only thing different was the invitation.