“Travis, stay where you are,” Eleanor said, her voice dropping the frantic aunt persona entirely. She reached into the folds of her wedding dress, her hand disappearing near her thigh. When it emerged, she wasn’t holding a photograph. She was holding a matte-black compact pistol, aimed directly at my chest.
“You said you loved the way I listened to you,” she said softly, a chillingly empty smile touching her lips. “I did listen, Travis. I listened to everything your father whispered in his sleep for the last five years. I know exactly who you are, and I know exactly what your mother hid in your bloodline. Now, sit down. Don’t make this messy.”
Outside the heavy oak doors, I heard the sudden, rhythmic thud of combat boots rushing up the grand staircase of the Savannah estate. The handles of the double doors began to rattle.
I looked at the window behind her, three stories above a courtyard of concrete and iron spikes. I looked at the woman I thought was my wife, who claimed to be my aunt, holding a gun to my heart.
The door handle clicked. The wood began to splinter.
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