Mark was talking to himself.

“Where is it?” he muttered. “Where did the old witch put it?”

I took another step, my eyes fixed on the yellow light spilling out from the landing.

I knew what he was looking for.

He wanted the original deed to the ranch and the ledger from 1998.

The ledger that proved he had forged Abigail’s signature on the loan documents.

The ledger that proved he had stolen her money to pay off his gambling debts in Reno.

If he found it, he would burn it.

He would burn the whole house down if he had to.

I reached the top landing.

The hallway was dark, illuminated only by the light from the study door.

The door was half-open.

Through the crack, I saw him.

Mark Darcy stood in the center of the room.

His coat was wet and thrown onto Abigail’s velvet armchair.

His hair was messy, clinging to his forehead with sweat.

He was pulling books off the shelves, throwing them onto the floor.

Pages ripped.

Leather bindings cracked.

“Stupid old woman,” Mark growled under his breath.