The last thing Lily Whitaker heard before her fingers slipped from the balcony rail was Valerie Crane’s voice beside her ear.
“Goodbye, little mouse.”
The words were soft enough to be mistaken for affection from a distance.
That was what made them so terrible.
Lily was six years old, standing on the third-floor balcony of her father’s estate, her small fingers wrapped around black wrought iron that felt cold and slick against her skin.
Below her, the stone courtyard still smelled like wet concrete from the sprinklers.
Inside the house, chicken soup cooled on the stove, filling the hallway with the kind of smell that should have meant safety.
The dry autumn wind moved across the balcony and lifted the edge of Lily’s pink dress.
She tried to pull back.
