“If she’d given birth to a boy…”
“Richard would’ve lost his inheritance.”
Annie’s stomach tightened. “That’s motive.”
“Strong motive,” Jack said. “Strong enough to kill for.”
“You think Richard did it.”
“I think someone did,” he corrected. “And I think the family spent the next century protecting whoever it was.”
Annie turned back to the crate. Her fingers brushed against something heavier than the others.
She froze, then lifted it carefully.
A large volume bound in cracked black leather rested in her hands. The edges had rounded with years of use. The gilt lettering on the spine had almost vanished. The pages shifted under her grip, worn and loose, as if countless hands had turned them.
“Jack,” she said. “Come here.”
He joined her immediately.
Her breath caught as she opened the cover.
“A family Bible.”
The first pages bore dense, slanted handwriting—names, dates, locations. The ink varied from deep brown to pale gray, layered across decades.
“The genealogy,” she whispered.
They bent over it together.
“Isaac Blackwood,” she read. “Born Bergen, Norway, 1851. Arrived New York…” Her brow furrowed. “He came with his wife and five children.”
Jack scanned the entry. “Complete relocation. No safety net. That takes conviction.”
“And ambition.”
She turned the page. Business ventures appeared alongside births and deaths. Lumber. Shipping. Rail connections. Coal.
Then the entries grew vague.
“They stop naming industries,” Annie murmured.
“They didn’t need to,” Jack said. “Everyone already knew.”
She followed the family line forward. Thomas Blackwood—only son among four children. Sole heir.
Then Eleanor.
“Here,” Annie said. “Marriage entry.”
Thomas Blackwood married Eleanor Hensley, June 15, 1917.
“She was only seventeen,” Annie whispered.
Jack’s jaw tightened.
Mary, 1921.
