No one breathed.

The voice drifting up the stairwell was soft, unhurried—a voice that did not belong to a man surprised, or angry, or afraid.

It was the voice of someone used to speaking in the dark.

Someone who believed the dark belonged to him.

“Joan…” it called again, almost lilting.
“You brought guests.”

Joan gripped the wall with one hand, the banister with the other. Her entire body shook.
Not with fear.

With recognition.

“Edwin,” she whispered.

Don moved fast.

“Riggs—Georgie—secure the corridor. Samson, Fizz, get Josie upstairs. Pauline, with them. Masha too.”

But none of them moved at first.
The air seemed to have thickened, turned slow, viscous.