Hannah looked at Sophie, drifting in and out of sleep.

She had no one to help.

So she made the only choice she could.

She dressed Sophie in extra clothes, wrapped her in blankets, and placed her in the rickety stroller she had bought for five dollars at a thrift shop.

She packed diapers, a bottle, and borrowed medicine from a neighbor. Then she pushed the stroller into the snowy streets.

The address led her to the Upper West Side.

Hannah had never been there before.

When she reached the destination, she froze.

Before her stood a massive mansion with towering iron gates decorated with lion heads.

She hesitated for a long moment.

Then Sophie whimpered weakly.

Taking a deep breath, Hannah pushed the gate. It opened silently.

A black stone path led through a silent garden filled with statues. She pulled the blanket tighter around Sophie and approached the front door.

The huge oak door opened with a light push.

Inside, the entrance hall felt enormous, like a cathedral. The marble floor reflected her small figure.

The air felt strangely cold and empty.

Dust coated the furniture.

Sophie suddenly began coughing.

Hannah hurried through the rooms searching for heat.

The living room heater was broken.

The dining room heater was broken too.

Panic grew inside her chest.

She carried Sophie upstairs.

Guest rooms, library, game room—none had working heat.

Finally, on the third floor, she found a study where a heater still worked.

Warm air flowed through the room.

Relief nearly made her cry.

She laid Sophie near the heater, removed some blankets, and gave her medicine.

Soon the baby calmed and drifted to sleep.

Hannah tucked the baby monitor into her pocket and began cleaning the house.

She didn’t realize that while she was scrubbing the staircase, a black car had pulled up outside.

The owner of the mansion had just returned home.

Hannah was halfway down the stairs when she heard Sophie crying upstairs.

Not a normal cry—this one sounded frightened.

She dropped the mop and ran.

The baby monitor had stopped working.

When she reached the study, the crying had suddenly stopped.

She pushed the door open.

A tall man in a long black coat stood in the center of the room, holding Sophie gently in his arms.

On the desk beside him rested a black pistol.

The man turned slowly.

His face was sharp and cold, his gray eyes stormy—but filled with deep sorrow.

“Who are you?” he asked quietly.