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I lean in, dusting off the corner with the back of my hand. The main house is there, drawn in stark, fine lines—its wings, its cellar, the detached structures like the barn and greenhouse. But something’s off.

“Wait,” I point to a series of narrow, almost imperceptible lines etched beneath the structures. “What are these?”

Theo traces one with his finger. “They’re tunnels.”

For a second, I don’t respond, my eyes tracking the movement of his hand along the page. “Tunnels?”

“Underground. Look—there’s a corridor running beneath the main house, and branches leading out to the east guest house, the old garden shed, even the barn.” He glances up at me, and I can already see the wheels turning behind his eyes. “That would explain everything. Why no one was ever caught on security footage. How someone could move between rooms without being seen. I’d bet every damn dollar I have that the door I found last night leads straight to them.”

I eye him suspiciously.

“I was snooping around last night while you were asleep,” he says, guilt creeping through. “Couldn’t sleep. Ended up near the west hall, by an old service corridor. There’s a door at the end. I thought it led outside because there was a draft, but it was locked. Before I could try to pick it, Giles materialized out of thin air like a fucking poltergeist.” He frowns, rubbing the back of his neck. “Figured he just didn’t want me snooping. I didn’t think much of it until now. That draft might not’ve been from outside. It could’ve been air moving from underground.”

I make a note to sleep with one eye open tonight—partly out of caution, mostly because I’m irrationally jealous he’s been sneaking around playing detective without me.

I stare at the blueprint, something cold blooming in my gut. How was this missed? “I guess they didn’t need to mess with the security system.”

Theo’s jaw is tighter than I have ever seen it, which is no small feat.

I run my fingers along one of the tunnels on the blueprint, and a chill creeps down my spine. “No wonder the timeline never made sense. Someone’s been using these for years to manipulate the story. The narrative. The evidence.”

Theo looks at me. “And they probably thought no one would ever find this.”

“They almost got away with it,” I say.

But they didn’t. Not completely.

Not yet.

“If it wasn’t for you meddling kids,” I giggle.

Theo side eyes me, but I can tell he wants to laugh too.

It’s curious to me how this didn’t come up in court. How Theo is only just now learning of this. It’s so blatantly obvious. Why didn’t Peter himself tell Theo?

A more concerning thought creeps in. What if he didn’t tell him because he was the one using them?

I don’t say it out loud. I can’t imagine that Theo isn’t considering the same, but if it’s true—if Peter was really the one to blame… well, that fucks everything either of us has ever thought about any of this.

We work for what feels like hours digging through every scrap of paper imaginable when there is a soft knock at the door just before it creaks open.

The smell hits me before she even rounds the corner—rich, buttery, unmistakably filled with dairy, because nothing that smells so delicious has ever not had cheese in it. My stomach flips in anticipation and dread all at once. When Tillie appears, she’s gripping a silver tray with both hands. Her eyes dart between us like we might swat the food from her arms if she moves too fast.

“I, um…” she begins, so quietly I almost don’t hear it over her footsteps. “The kitchen thought you might like a little something while you… you talk. Or sit. Or—anyway. It’s gougères. Cheese puffs. Still warm.”

She lifts the lid with a shaky flourish, revealing perfectly golden mounds, flaky and soft, their centers visibly oozing with some kind of sharp, velvety cheese. The heat radiating off them smacks me square in the face. They smell like heaven.

God, I want to say yes.

Instead, I press my hand gently to my stomach like a silent apology. “They look amazing,” I say, and I mean it. “But I can’t. Dairy and I… we’ve had a falling out.”

Theo clears his throat next to me. “Same here. It’s mutual.”

The maid seems affronted, clearly caught off guard. “Oh. I—okay. That’s… totally fine.”

“You didn’t do anything wrong,” I say, trying to soften the blow. “They’re perfect. Really.”

She hesitates, looking like she’s debating whether to insist. Then she gives a tiny, embarrassed curtsy—yes, a curtsy—and scurries off, the tray trembling slightly in her hands.