“Carlisle,” Roderick said. “He left before the final set.”
James shook his head. “He always does.”
“What about the driver?” Roderick asked.
James stilled. “Which driver.”
“The carriage,” Roderick said. “Your parents’ carriage.”
James’s pulse quickened. “The driver was changed.”
“Yes,” Roderick said. “Illness. Sudden. Convenient.”
James stood. “Why did we not follow that sooner.”
“Because we assumed the footman mattered more,” Roderick replied.
James paced. “The driver controlled timing. Access. Escape.”
“And the footman,” Roderick said slowly, “was cover.”
They felt closer again.
By the third day, the trail had cooled.
They questioned the driver’s replacement only to find he had been hired through the same obscure channels. No records. No lasting ties.
James slammed his hand against the desk. “Someone is controlling the flow.”
Roderick watched him carefully. “You have not slept.”
“I do not need sleep,” James snapped.
“You do,” Roderick replied. “You are seeing patterns because you want them.”
James turned on him. “You think I am imagining this.”
“I think you are spiraling,” Roderick said calmly. “There is a difference.”
James raked a hand through his hair. “I cannot stop now.”
“You can,” Roderick said. “And you should.”
James scoffed. “While the man responsible walks free.”
“While you burn yourself out,” Roderick countered. “You are not thinking clearly.”
James stared at the papers. “Every moment I stop feels like betrayal.”
Roderick’s voice softened. “You are allowed to rest.”
“I am not,” James replied. “They did not get that luxury.”
Silence settled between them.
Roderick exhaled. “You are becoming obsessed.”
James did not deny it.
