The house was too quiet when Franz got back.
Lights dimmed to that low amber glow that meant the staff had clocked out hours ago. Heat humming in the walls, that constant pulse he usually tuned out. Somewhere a clock ticked—loud in the silence, like it was the only thing still moving.
He shut the front door soft. Shrugged off his coat. Hung it without looking, his hands moving on autopilot.
His head was still half in the car, half in the conversation he'd walked away from.
He shook it off.
Went upstairs.
The study light was still on.
That stopped him halfway up the staircase.
Arianne didn't stay down here this late. Not unless she was working. And when she worked, the door sat half-closed, the light burned brighter, the whole room felt like something being handled.
Tonight the door was open.
He took the last few steps slower. Not hesitating. Just reading what he was walking into.
He stepped in without knocking.
She wasn't at her desk. She was on the couch.
