“Nobody looks like Violet.” She’d been a once-in-a-millennia compilation of genes.

“Are you all right?” Strena checked out my swollen eyes.

She didn’t know.

Of course, she doesn’t know.

And I desperately didn’t want to be the one to tell her, but I had to, even if I hated every miserable word. “Violet passed away yesterday.”

Each damn syllable was a nail driven into my chest, punching through to my lungs, stealing my air.

Strena’s shoulders collapsed, as if experiencing the same effect. Silent tears flooded her face. And then she hugged me, a real hug that lasted. “I’m so sorry.” She wiped her eyes. Sniffed. Backed toward the stairs. “I have to go.” She climbed the steps sideways, dazed. And just before she disappeared into the studio, she said, “My sugarworks are stiffening.”

I had no idea what that meant, but didn’t go after her to ask. I had my own work. I would leave her to hers.

Violet’s living quarters waited behind me, but I wasn’t emotionally ready to tackle them, so I headed down. I’d already been scared in the attic—which the studio had been at one point. I might as well brave the basement.

My grandmother’s Realtor, Beatriz Amoso, called as I plodded down the stairs.

“I just saw your text. I’m so sorry. I loved Violet.” She also sounded as if she’d been crying. “May I ask if you are Violet’s heir? I need to know what to do with the listing. Violet has accepted an offer, but the signing of the contract of sale was supposed to happen at the closing next week. If we’re not sure who’ll be inheriting the house, it’d be best to take it off the market, or the heirs might contest the sale. If they don’t, then they can relist and the buyer can put in a new offer.”

“I’m the sole beneficiary of my grandmother’s will.”

I opened the basement door and flipped on the light—not much of an improvement. The lightbulb couldn’t have been more than forty watts and covered in cobwebs. Foreboding. If the third floor was the Phantom’s den, the basement was a vampire’s lair.

The building had been built in 1915. Over a hundred years old. The exact thought I should not have been thinking when descending into a spooky dungeon.

“Will you be contesting the contract of sale?” Beatriz asked.

“No.” The farther down I went, the mustier the air. The stairs creaked, a horror movie soundtrack. I stopped at the bottom until my eyes adapted to the low light. Definitely dungeonesque. “I’d like everything to go ahead the way Violet wished.”

The basement wall next to me was stone, the floor under my sneakers plain dirt.

The better to dig graves in.

Don’t think that!

Too late.