The Harrison mansion stood behind tall iron gates at the end of a long, tree-lined driveway.
It was an enormous stone house with white columns, dark windows, and gardens that looked as though they belonged in an old photograph. Lights illuminated the front entrance, but most of the upper windows remained dark.
When I rang the bell, the door opened almost immediately.
An elderly man stood on the other side.
He was tall despite his age, with silver hair, a carefully trimmed beard, and a black suit that fitted him perfectly. His face was lined with the unmistakable marks of time, but his eyes were alert.
“Emily Carter?” he asked.
“Yes. Mr. Harrison?”
He nodded.
For several seconds, he simply stared at me.
His gaze moved from my face to my pink blouse, then to my skirt and red heels. His lips parted, but no words came out.
Finally, he whispered, “My God.”
