“Your grandmother was not foolish, Clara,” Arthur said. “She knew Graham was watching her every move.”

“She made a duplicate original,” I said, a spark of hope rising.

“She did,” Arthur said. “But she did not keep it at Blackthorn Ridge.”

“Where is it?” I asked.

Arthur turned the notepad over, showing me a list of coordinates and a name written in Eleanor’s elegant handwriting.

“She gave it to someone she trusted completely,” he said.

“Who?” I asked, leaning closer to read the name.

Before he could answer, the sound of a car engine echoed from the gravel lane outside.

Tires crunched loudly on the stones.

Arthur walked to the front window and parted the lace curtains.

His face paled as he looked out.

“What is it?” I asked, standing up from the chair.

“It is a black Mercedes,” Arthur said.

I hurried to the window and peered over his shoulder.

The car idling in the driveway belonged to Celeste.

The passenger door opened, and Graham stepped out into the damp afternoon air.

He was wearing a dark trench coat and looking directly at the cottage porch.