He would have seen them if they’d left. He was sure of it.
Just after midnight, the faint crunch of hoofbeats reached his ears. He rose from the heather as two riders emerged along the lane.
“No change,” he said. “No one’s come or gone.”
“Then let’s go in quietly.” Barrington gave a single nod. They dismounted in silence, weapons ready, and moved as one through the mist-wet underbrush.
Half-hidden at the end of a narrow lane, the two-story structure looked untouched by time or by guilt. The shutters were drawn. The chimney was cold. The garden gate hung straight. There was nothing in its quiet face to suggest it had once held a prisoner.
But Alex knew she was inside it. So did Barrington. Simms said nothing, but he moved like a man who already knew what they would find.
They entered just after one in the morning. Lanterns low. Pistols drawn.
The house was empty.
No dust, no broken furniture. Nothing abandoned in haste. Just absence. Just silence. The parlor had been wiped clean, though the scent of coal still lingered. Upstairs, the beds were made. Drawersclosed.
But it wasn’t right.
In the kitchen hearth, a small mound of ash still held the faintest trace of warmth. Not hours old. Minutes.
Barrington ran a hand over the mantel. “They were here. Not long ago.”
Alex crossed to the rear of the kitchen. There shouldn’t have been another exit. But the bolt slid back easily, and the door opened without resistance. He stepped outside, just outside the kitchen door. His fingers brushed through the damp soil, pausing on a pair of fresh indentations.
“Two horses,” he murmured. “One carriage.”
Simms appeared beside him. “Headed south.”
Alex looked up sharply.
Barrington exhaled. “The mine.”
No one questioned it. No one argued.
They turned back toward the door. But Alex paused, then stepped into the hall. He moved with purpose now, past the kitchen, past the empty drawing room, to the narrow stairs that led to the upstairs chamber.
The bedroom was still. Cold.
He knelt near the dresser and swept his hand along the floorboards.
A shape, soft, familiar.
A glove. Cream leather, finely stitched. At the thumb, the tiny mark where she’d once pricked herself threading a needle. Alex turned it in his hand. For a moment, he simply held it, the shape of her hand pressed into the leather like memory refusing to fade.
Inside he found a folded page.
He opened it slowly, reverently. Ink. Curling script. A torn edge from a ledger.
Barrington stopped short, his tone caught between relief anddread. “That’s Rowland’s.”
Alex didn’t answer.
He read the page. Then read it again.
Greyline Holdings. Schedule B. Disbursements. Everly.
He looked up. “She left this for us.”
