The kitchen door handle rattled violently as Sheriff Mercer threw his weight against it from the dining room side.

“Emily, move,” I whispered, grabbing her elbow and pulling her toward the open threshold of the pantry exit.

The cold rain lashed against the stone steps outside, throwing a damp mist across the linoleum.

She stumbled, her breath catching in her throat, and I felt her flinch when my hand brushed her upper arm.

Even in the dim light filtering from the courtyard, the dark purple swelling beneath her left eye was clear.

Her lower lip was split, the blood dried into a dark crust.

“They kept me in the cellar room beneath the carriage house,” she whispered, her voice trembling as she struggled to keep pace.

“Ryan did this?” I asked, my voice flat, though my chest tightened with a cold, familiar rage.

“Ryan, and his father,” she said, leaning against me for support. “When I found the ledger, they didn’t even hesitate.”

We slipped through the doorway just as the lock on the inner kitchen door gave way behind us.