Allison hadn’t meant to leave Vincent alone that long.

Dinner had gone well-better than she expected, honestly. He was charming in a slightly overeager way, the kind that made you forgive small missteps. When she stepped into the kitchen to check on the dessert, she assumed he’d stay put in the living room, maybe glance at the old photo albums on the coffee table.

Instead, the house had gone quiet.

“Vincent?” she called, wiping her hands on a towel as she stepped back into the hallway.

No answer.

A faint creak came from down the hall-the one place she hadn’t shown him.

Her stomach tightened.

“My grandmother’s room is off-limits,” she had said earlier, lightly but firmly. “I haven’t touched anything since she passed.”

Now the door stood slightly ajar.

Allison pushed it open.

The air inside still carried that faint lavender scent, like it had been sealed in time. Everything was exactly as she’d left it: the vanity with its neat rows of brushes, the wardrobe closed tight, the bedspread pulled smooth.

And Vincent-

-standing at the dresser, one of the drawers halfway open.

He froze.

Then, in a flurry of motion, he shut the drawer and practically leapt backward, landing awkwardly on the edge of the bed.

“I-uh-I made a wrong turn,” he said quickly, too quickly.

Allison didn’t respond right away.

She stepped into the room slowly, her eyes drifting from him to the dresser… to the drawer he’d just closed.

“Wrong turn?” she repeated.

“Yeah. I was looking for the bathroom and-these old houses, you know-”

“Vincent.”

He stopped talking.

The silence stretched.

Allison folded her arms, studying him. There was a tension in her expression-not just anger, but something deeper, quieter. Disappointment, maybe. Or recognition.

“You thought she kept valuables in here,” Allison said.