This wasn’t just a recent desperation.

This was a long-term, calculated theft that had ruined the estate long before Wexler Stone arrived.

Suddenly, a floorboard creaked behind me.

I froze, the flashlight beam shaking against the page.

The door to the gatehouse was still open.

A shadow fell across the threshold, blocking the moonlight.

I gripped the iron poker tighter, my knuckles turning white.

The shadow stretched across the dusty floorboards, reaching almost to my shoes.

“Clara,” a voice whispered from the darkness.

It was Aunt Caroline.

She stepped into the weak beam of my flashlight, her face pale and her eyes wide with frantic energy.

She was clutching a woolen shawl around her shoulders, her fingers twitching against the fabric.

“What are you doing down here?” she asked, her voice trembling.

“Looking for the truth,” I said, keeping my voice steady.

I held up the leather-bound book so she could see it.

“You knew about this, didn’t you?” I asked.

She looked at the ledger, then looked away, unable to meet my eyes.

“It was never supposed to be found,” she whispered.