Before Clara could muster the strength to reply, the heavy, iron-reinforced oak door of the cellar groaned loudly. The heavy deadbolt, which Julian had personally locked, blew backward with a deafening crack, the wood splintering inward.
A sudden gust of freezing, rain-soaked wind swept into the dimly lit cellar, flickering the low-wattage Edison bulbs overhead. Standing in the doorway was a silhouette.
She was a woman in her early sixties, her short, impeccably styled silver-grey hair completely untouched by the hurricane outside. She wore a long, tailored dark grey cashmere trench coat over a crisp burgundy blouse. Her presence commanded the room instantly, completely displacing Julian’s arrogant gravity. Water dripped from the hem of her coat, pooling on the stone. She did not look at Julian. Her piercing, icy blue eyes locked immediately onto Clara’s broken form on the floor.