The Secret Whisperer
What did surprise her was the envelope on the floor, lying at an angle that suggested it had been slipped underneath.
She picked it up, her fingers brushing the cheap, rough paper. The handwriting on the front was angular and precise: Leila Weinrich. No address, no stamp.
“Someone’s got good intel,” she muttered, tearing the envelope open.
Inside was a single sheet of paper. The words were typed, not written, and they carried an almost clinical precision:
The mask is the key. The castle is the lock. Find your castle before it’s too late.
Leila frowned as she read the note, her mind snapping to the old mask in the attic and the illustration in the old book. Someone else knew about the mask. B
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