Chapter 11 · free to read
The seventh door I opened had no murderer behind it. It had someone my own age, who had been waiting ten years to be found.
Every great house has a second set of rooms behind the first. The family calls it the back way. It was built for listening.
Six names answered, one spared. And on the far side of a hand's width of plaster sat the roster of the ten, in a locked study, with my death still written at the bottom of it.
Artwork and narration generated with AI.