The doors to the other bedrooms were closed, not even cracked.

It was dead quiet in the house. She was both glad and unnerved for that. The kitchen didn’t smell like roasted coffee beans and there was no fresh fruit on the island. She passed through the living room where, just hours ago, they’d played Never Have I Ever, and stared out the towering picture windows. In the light, now, she could see the expanse of the frozen lake. It was a grey-and-white world out there, with a smattering of evergreens. Birch trees, although probably stunning in the fall, looked like bones jutting out of the snow.

The silence was so absolute it was suffocating.

The west wing opened up to her like an invitation. She vaguely remembered Bennett’s tour from last night. The study and the sauna were both down this way, and Eleanor and Don stayed in the last room on the left. Perhaps one of them had crept down to her room and left the limerick. Laid down beside her.

Before she realized it, Morgan was halfway down the wing, edging closer to a thin blade of light that shone on the floor. Across from the study, a bedroom door was ajar. She heard a shuffling sound from inside. Someone sliding something across the floor.

Tucking herself into the shallow alcove of the study, Morgan gripped the edge of the wall and stretched her neck to see into the sliver of the adjacent room. A man was up and getting undressed. She just saw his back at first, as he pulled off a woolen sweater over a pale blue dress shirt.

She had no idea who it could be. Everyone was accounted for in the opposite wing, unless, perhaps, Blake had not slept upstairs in the loft with Cora. Trouble in paradise?

But this man was too broad at the shoulders, too compact in the torso. That ruled out David, too.

Bennett?

Morgan squinted and leaned a tiny bit closer, careful not to lose her balance and fall on her face as she rubbernecked.

He pulled the sweater completely over his head, and a tuft of white hair popped up.

Christopher.

He must have arrived sometime in the middle of the night, or even within the hour. His muscles sagged beneath his white undershirt. He patted his hair down and leaned over a bureau to consider the old man in the mirror.

Morgan held her breath. She watched as he prodded and pinched at the crepey skin around his eyes as though willing it to firm. Then he turned his head and dragged a finger down the side of his neck. She suspected he’d cut himself shaving, but then she saw it: the pinkened, puckered skin and the word “Ruined” seared into his flesh.

Have you been naughty or nice?