“He was always sloppy when he was hurried,” my father had written in the margin.

I stood up, the flashlight beam catching the dust motes floating in the stagnant air of the study.

This was the leverage Cole had used to build his career.

He had buried the man who caught him, married his daughter, and used the stolen capital to fund his rise to Colonel.

I folded the paper carefully and slid it into the inner pocket of my waxed utility jacket.

I placed the diary inside my leather satchel and zipped it shut.

A floorboard creaked in the hallway outside.

I froze, my hand still resting on the zipper of my bag.

The house was supposed to be empty, listed for probate sale by my father’s executor three weeks ago.

I turned off the flashlight.

The darkness of the study became absolute, save for the faint grey light filtering through the heavy velvet curtains from the streetlamp outside.

I listened.

There was the sound of leather soles on the hardwood of the foyer, slow and deliberate.

“Eleanor?”