The dimly lit kitchen of the Phelps’ creaky old house felt heavy with tension, the faint hum of the refrigerator the only sound cutting through the silence. Patricia Phelps stood by the counter, her hands wrapped around a mug of coffee that had long gone cold. Her disheveled hair framed her face, and her eyes carried a strange intensity—too sharp, too focused, as if she wasn’t entirely herself. The faint scent of lavender, oddly out of place, lingered in the air.