Page 5 of Bound By Crimson
Her parents had flown to Romania, landing in Bucharest first, then took a rented car into the countryside.
They had called her from a quiet, rural hotel. Her mother’s voice had been full of wonder.
“It’s beautiful here, sweetheart. The hills look like something from a storybook. We’ll call again soon.”
But they never called again.
Three days later, the police reached out.
Her parents had been found murdered in their hotel room. No signs of forced entry. No suspects. No clear motive.
The Romanian police called it random.
The American embassy had given their condolences.
At first, there had been voices—police, embassy staff, reporters. Words like investigation and next of kin had filled the quiet.
She had buried them beneath the old maple tree at the edge of Rosewood Cemetery—the only part of the last year that felt real.
But then... nothing.
The calls stopped. The world moved on.
But Lyric hadn’t.
A week after the funeral, Edison Ashford had called. His voice was cool and composed.
“I’m sorry for your loss, Ms. Dawson. There is one matter I need to make you aware of. Since your parents never arrived for the signing, the estate they were to inherit remains unclaimed.”
Lyric had barely heard him.
“I don’t care about the estate,” she’d whispered, voice raw. “I just want my parents back.”
There had been a pause.
“Of course. I’ll handle the necessary paperwork.”
And that was the last time she heard from him.
She slipped the letter carefully back onto the dresser where it had been waiting, draped her father’s cardigan over her shoulders, and pulled the sleeves down past her wrists.
It smelled faintly of engine grease and laundry soap. Familiar and comforting.
And something unmistakably Dad.
Grabbing her bag, she stepped into the pale spring sunshine.
The walk to town was long.
But it was better than standing still.
Chapter Two
The Velvet Cauldron
The town looked the same. But it didn’t feel the same.
Lyric walked with her head down, her father’s cardigan pulled tight against the wind that still clung to winter’s edge. The morning sun had risen, pale and watery, offering no warmth—just the illusion of it.
