“We have to move, Caroline.”

I pulled her arm over my shoulder and hoisted her up.

She groaned, her teeth clenched to keep from crying out.

My shoulder bag dragged against my hip.

The heavy leather-bound ledger inside pressed hard against my ribs.

“Clara!” Marcus shouted again, closer this time.

He was coming down the ridge trail, his boots crunching on the dry leaves.

“He’ll find us,” Caroline breathed, her forehead wet with cold sweat.

“Not if we get to the old boathouse,” I said.

We shuffled down the slope, our boots slipping on the wet pine needles.

The smell of brackish river water grew stronger as we descended.

The James River lapped against the rotting wooden pilings below.

I guided Caroline behind a thick clump of wild rhododendron.

The old stone boathouse stood ten yards away, its green paint peeling in the damp air.

The padlock on the door was rusted solid.

I reached into my pocket and felt the heavy brass key ring.

My grandfather had kept every key to the estate on this ring.

I found the small, square-headed key and slid it into the lock.