Part 2: I rushed to the nursery ready to fire the new nanny for making my twin daughters scream, completely unaware that she was actually bringing them joy for the first time since my wife passed away.

The next four weeks were the happiest of my life.

Elise moved from the guest quarters into the master bedroom. We took the twins to the zoo, bought them ice cream that melted all over their clothes, and danced in the kitchen on Sunday mornings. The shadows that had haunted my home for nearly a year were entirely obliterated by the radiant light Elise brought into our lives.

Tonight was Clara’s birthday.

Instead of mourning in the dark with a bottle of liquor, Elise and I baked a small strawberry cake with the girls. We let Maisie and Rosie blow out a single candle, telling them stories about their mother's kindness, ensuring Clara's memory would always be a source of love rather than sorrow.

By eleven o'clock, the girls were tucked into bed, and Elise was curled up on the sofa in my study, fast asleep with an open book resting on her stomach. I watched her with overwhelming tenderness, pulling a cashmere throw over her shoulders before kissing her forehead.

Everything was finally peaceful.

Everything was finally right.

Then, at precisely 12:14 AM, the quiet was shattered.

*BAM. BAM. BAM.*

Heavy, violent knocking echoed from the private foyer doors.

I bolted upright. The private elevator required a biometric scan and a security keycard from the lobby desk. No one could reach my penthouse floor without the doorman calling up first.

Elise gasped, waking instantly, clutching the blanket to her chest. "Julian? What is that?"

"Stay here," I commanded, pulling a small revolver from the locked drawer of my desk.

I moved silently down the hallway, keeping my back to the wall, my gun raised. The knocking came again—erratic, desperate, pounding against the reinforced steel doors.

*BAM. BAM. BAM.*

"Julian! Open the damn door!" a muffled voice cried from the other side.

My blood ran cold. The voice was female. Raspy, exhausted, but agonizingly familiar.

I approached the video intercom beside the door and tapped the screen.

The high-definition night-vision camera flickered to life. Standing in the private vestibule was a woman drenched in rain, wearing an oversized, torn trench coat. Her hair was matted to her skull, her skin pale, her breathing labored.

She looked directly into the camera lens.

My breath stopped in my throat. My grip on the gun went completely slack, and the weapon clattered onto the hardwood floor.

It was Clara.

My dead wife was standing outside my door, staring into the camera with terrified, bloodshot eyes.