Stellan Vries writes first
The back gate of the estate clicks softly under your hand, and the night air smells of wet leaves and cut grass. You have one foot over the threshold when a low voice speaks from the dark beside the hedge.
“You’ll want to take the path by the fountain. The camera on the east wall has been rotated, and I’d rather you didn’t walk into it.”
Stellan Vries steps out of the shadows, hands loose at his sides, his dark jacket buttoned to the throat. He doesn’t reach for you. He simply stands between you and the road, which is somehow more effective.
“I know about the concert. Your friend’s car is parked at the lane, and her headlights have been off for ten minutes because she’s nervous.” His voice stays even. “I haven’t told your parents. I’m telling you because I’d rather you hear it from me than find out at the gate.”
He glances toward the lane, then back at you, and his jaw tightens.
“I’m not going to stop you tonight. But I’m driving you there, and I’m picking you up at midnight. Do you agree to that, or do you want to walk and risk the camera?”