Charlotte felt the pieces lock into place.
Thomas had not enabled William.
He had stopped him.
“That loss,” Christopher continued, “was what began William’s spiral. Debts multiplied. Creditors pressed. He blamed Thomas, then you, Edward, for what he perceived as betrayal. The Westbrooks were collateral. Your father refused to lend further funds. William needed an example. And he needed leverage.”
Charlotte’s chest tightened, but the pain was clean now. Defined.
Edward exhaled slowly, his eyes closing for just a moment. “Then we have motive. And proof.”
They moved quickly after that.
Chapter 32
They moved with precision.
Within the hour, every ledger, every sworn statement, every certified copy lay arranged across the magistrate’s desk in careful order. Ink and seal replaced rumor. Dates replaced suspicion. Motive was no longer conjecture—it was documented.
Charlotte stood beside him in the small office of the Justice of the Peace, her spine straight, her gloves folded neatly in her hands.
She did not tremble. She did not falter. When she spoke of the arbor, of William’s grip on her wrist, of the kiss forced upon her before witnesses, her voice remained steady.
Edward did not touch her.
He did not need to.
Christopher supplied the final documents without flourish. The alias had been confirmed. The deposits were traced. The dates aligned with brutal clarity.
“It was Thomas who ended the arrangement,” he said simply. “Armitage lost everything when he did.”
Edward did not move.
“And when Armitage lost his investment,” Christopher continued, “he chose retaliation.”
That was enough.
The magistrate studied the documents for several long minutes. He asked careful questions—about dates, about aliases, about the road near Hawthorne Hollow. Edward answered plainly. Charlotte answered without hesitation.
When the magistrate finally set down the final affidavit, his expression had hardened into something decisive.
“You are prepared to swear to this testimony?” he asked Charlotte.
“I am,” she replied.
Edward felt something shift in his chest at the sound of it—not fragility, not fear. Strength.
The magistrate reached for the small bell on his desk and rang.
The sound was sharp in the quiet room.
“Send for the constable,” he instructed.
No one spoke after that.
***
William Armitage was located before nightfall.
