The estate was dark when they arrived.
The drive from the station had been quiet. Franz drove with one hand on the wheel and the other holding hers, his thumb moving absently across her knuckles. Neither of them spoke. The city slid past the windows, streetlights bleeding into the dark, and Arianne let her head rest against the seat and didn't pull away.
The foyer lamp was on low. Aunt Estella had left it burning — a small warmth against the dark house. She'd gone to bed hours ago, but she'd known they weren't home yet. She always knew.
Franz shrugged off his coat. The brown one. The one Arianne had picked out that morning. He hadn't changed. His shirt was still the same one she'd buttoned for him, the collar slightly rumpled now, the sleeves pushed up his forearms. He'd left the house for a script reading and ended the night at a police station. He looked like a man who'd been running on adrenaline and was about to crash.
