PROLOGUE: THE LAST DAYS OF MARTHA SIMMONS

The pills scattered across the bathroom counter like small white stars---Valium, Ambien, Xanax---a constellation of chemical comfort. Martha Simmons arranged them with trembling fingers, separating each variety into precise rows. She knew their names, dosages, and effects as intimately as she once knew the wines served at estate dinners. The difference was that wine had been for guests; these were for her alone.

Morning light filtered through gauzy curtains, casting the room in a pale glow that made her skin appear translucent. She caught sight of herself in the mirror and paused. The woman staring back bore only faint resemblance to the one who had once presided over garden parties at Blake Hall, who had raised funds for Kingston's children's hospital, whose laughter once filled these rooms...

...That woman had vanished, leaving behind this hollow reflection---cheekbones too sharp, eyes sunken, hair limp against her skull.

Martha turned away from the mirror and selected two pills from separate rows. Practiced motions. The ritual had become as natural as breathing, though lately, even breathing seemed to require conscious effort.

\"Mom?\" Jonathan's voice from the doorway startled her. She closed her palm around the pills and forced her lips into what she hoped resembled a smile...

CHAPTER 1: BLAKE HALL

The taxi departed in a haze of exhaust, leaving Jonathan Blake alone at the rusted iron gates of his ancestral home. Five years had passed since he'd last stood here, yet Blake Hall appeared unchanged---a colonial specter frozen in time against the vivid green of Jamaica's northern coast.

Jonathan adjusted his shirt collar against the humidity. December in Port Antonio brought an oppressive warmth that clung to skin like damp silk. Sweat gathered at his temples despite the early hour...