The grey sky over Grimshaw Hall had darkened by the time the Cold Case Unit stepped back into the corridor. Heat still pressed against the windows, but there was a strange stillness now—like the air was bracing for something it couldn’t warn them about.

‘We split as planned,’ Don said quietly. ‘Riggs, Georgie—guest list. Pauline, Fizz—documents. Jean, you take the safety sweep. I’ll coordinate from here.’

They nodded and peeled away, pairs disappearing into the long wood-panelled corridors with the same shared understanding: the building was no longer just a hotel.

It was a trap.
They were inside it.
And someone had begun closing the doors.

Jean Samson moved with the kind of mechanical authority that had gotten her through countless...

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