“We need to get back to the house,” he said.

I nodded, my fingers tightening around the cold silver casing of the watch.

We walked down the ridge in silence, our boots sinking into the wet clay.

The old Southern estate seemed to rise out of the fog as we approached.

Its white pillars were grayed by age and dampness, the paint peeling like dead skin.

We entered through the heavy kitchen door at the back of the house.

The air inside was thick with the smell of old wood, floor wax, and stale tea.

Aunt Caroline was sitting at the long oak table in the center of the room.

A porcelain teacup sat in front of her, but she wasn’t drinking.

Her hands were clasped in her lap, her knuckles white.

Marcus was pacing the length of the Persian rug, his cell phone pressed tightly to his ear.

His expensive wool coat was thrown over a chair, and his silk tie was loosened at his throat.

“I don’t care about the board of directors,” Marcus yelled into the phone. “We have a signed letter of intent.”