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The nursery was dark except for the rain, and Dante Moretti had his hand inside his jacket, fingers curled around the grip, because a stranger had just switched off the lights in a room full of his screaming daughters. Every psychologist in three countries had told him the same thing: light chases the monsters. This girl — cheap shoes, no references, hired out of pure desperation — had done the opposite, and now the screaming had stopped, and that was worse. Then she began to hum. A low, broken melody, a folk song from a village above Palermo. A song his wife used to sing to her belly before the twins were born. A song Isabella died before she could teach them. Dante's blood went cold. He crossed the room, took the girl's arm, and asked her the only question that mattered — and her answer would either save his children or bury them all.