Page 105 of The Evidence of Us

I stare at him, then at the rows of linen, then at him again. “We risked tetanus for a closet.”

“A cozy one, though.” He bumps his shoulder up against mine. “Plenty of room for introspection.”

I shove him a little, sending another puff of dust into the air. “Congratulations, Professor. You’ve officially discovered the Mayfair’s least sinister secret passage.”

Theo grins. “On the bright side, at least we know where they keep the spare sheets.”

“And now.” I squeeze past him. “I need a shower. And possibly an exorcism.”

I’m halfway through wiping the dust off my jeans when something catches my eye.

“It looks like there hasn’t been anyone in here in a while,” I say, reaching past Theo to one of the lower shelves. The neatly folded linens end after a single row, giving way to rows of small bottles and tins, all perfectly labeled in fading handwriting; a neat, old-fashioned script that belonged to someone who took notes with a fountain pen and had opinions about ink viscosity. Everything is coated in a thin layer of dust. “Hang on…”

At first, it looks like cleaning supplies. Nothing exciting. Until I spot the glass jar filled with cracked paint flakes and a tin marked gilding compound. Another labeled acetone—use sparingly.

I run my thumb over a jar of varnish, the top sticky with residue. “This isn’t just storage for linens,” I murmur. “It’s⁠—”

Theo leans in to look over my shoulder and squints at a faded tag tied around a small brush set. He’s suddenly very comfortable invading my personal space, and I’m not exactly protesting. “Restoration materials,” he finishes for me. “For woodwork, maybe. Or⁠—”

“Antiques,” I say softly. “Or artifacts.”

My brain starts connecting dots. The crates in the tunnels, the not-so-random invoices we found in Baryn’s desk drawers, the rumors Evelyn mentioned.

What if some of them weren’t rumors at all?

If these rich fucks are hiding a sixteen-million-dollar orrery somewhere in this house just to say they have it, when that kind of money could actually help people, I’m not sure what I’ll do. They could fund the entire Bellwood legal clinic for a decade.

But instead they might be sitting on a glorified status symbol no one’s even allowed to look at.

It wouldn’t shock me if the whole thing were true.

Pieces like that are rare, almost impossible to authenticate, and usually acquired under circumstances no one keeps a record of. Half the value comes from the whisper network that surrounds them. The story tied to it is what drives the price.

A one-of-a-kind instrument linked to a man who died under mysterious circumstances, whose estate is still a forensic disaster? Collectors would eat that up. They’d pay for the drama alone.

The fact that the Mayfairs might be sitting on something like that, hoarding it in a tunnel or a basement for bragging rights, turns my stomach.

Theo follows my gaze to the far wall. A narrow wooden door hides behind a rack of brushes and a stack of crates.