At last, Edward folded the letter with deliberate care and set it aside.
“What is it?” Christopher asked.
“Nothing,” Edward replied.
Christopher frowned. “You don’t look amused.”
Edward placed the folded paper on the desk, aligning it precisely with the edge. “An accusation.”
Christopher’s brow furrowed. “Of what?”
“My family,” Edward said evenly.
The levity drained from Christopher’s expression. “From whom?”
“Anonymous.”
“And what does it claim?”
Edward hesitated—only a fraction of a second, but enough. “That a carriage accident was not an accident.”
Silence fell between them, dense and unyielding.
Christopher’s voice was quieter when he spoke again. “Do you know the family?”
“No.”
“Then why does it matter?”
Edward’s gaze dropped briefly to the folded letter, though he did not touch it.
Because the nameWestbrookstirred something uneasy in him.
Because coincidence had a way of arriving precisely when one least wished it—quietly, persistently, refusing to be dismissed.
“It is idle gossip,” Edward said at last. “Someone seeking attention.”
Christopher studied him with a familiarity earned over years of shared battlefields and unspoken truths. “And you believe that?”
Edward’s jaw tightened. “I have no reason to disbelieve it.”
Christopher nodded slowly, accepting the answer even if he did not entirely trust it. He rose and reached for his coat. “Very well. But if it ceases to be nothing, you’ll tell me.”
Edward did not respond.
Christopher paused at the door, one hand resting on the latch. “You don’t have to carry everything alone, Edward.”
Edward inclined his head slightly. “Goodnight.”
Christopher left.
The study settled once more into stillness, the kind that pressed rather than soothed. Edward remained seated, his hand resting near the folded letter without quite touching it. Outside, the house breathed quietly, unaware of the fissure that had just formed beneath its foundations.
Westbrooks.
Hawthorne Hollow.
Not an accident.
