“You don’t have the authority to do anything in this house,” Marcus said.

“Caroline does,” Blake replied. “And so do I.”

Aunt Caroline looked down at the pocket watch, her face pale under the kitchen lights.

“If we don’t act,” she said, her voice trembling, “we will go down with him.”

“Caroline, don’t do this,” Marcus warned, his voice dropping to a low, threatening register.

Before she could answer, the sound of tires crunching on gravel drifted through the window.

Yellow headlights swept across the kitchen walls, casting long, distorted shadows.

A car door slammed outside in the driveway.

I walked to the window and parted the heavy lace curtains.

A county sheriff’s cruiser sat near the front steps, its blue and red lights silent but spinning in the mist.

Lydia Crane got out of the passenger side, holding a thick manila envelope against her chest.

“They’re here,” I said.

Marcus made a move toward the back door, but Blake stood in his way, his expression firm.

“Don’t make it worse, Marcus,” Blake said.

The heavy brass knocker on the front door sounded, echoing through the empty hallways of Mercer House.