I had expected something severe.
Instead, the estate looked almost peaceful.
Children ran across the lawn. Elderly women sat beneath striped awnings. Waiters carried trays through open doors. A string quartet played beside a fountain where rose petals floated on the surface.
The beauty of the place disturbed me more than ugliness would have.
Monsters were not supposed to grow jasmine.
Niko helped me from the car. His mother waited at the top of the steps.
I recognized her from society pages, though photographs had failed to capture the sharp intelligence in her face. Bianca Santoro was a slender woman in her late fifties, dressed in dark blue. Her silver-streaked hair was drawn into a low knot.
She descended two steps and kissed both my cheeks.
“Welcome, Eveina.”
Her voice carried warmth without exaggeration.
“Thank you.”
She studied me briefly.
“You have your mother’s eyes.”
My breath caught.
“You knew her?”
