A low, mechanical click echoed from the shadows, barely audible over the sound of the fire hoses.

The heavy wooden doors of the guest house behind us slowly creaked open.

I pulled my hand back from Alexander’s coat.

The heavy oak doors of the guest house swung wider.

Detective Harris stepped out first, his trench coat damp from the mist.

Behind him, two uniform officers guided Celeste into the cold night air.

Her silver evening gown was torn at the hem, dragging through the wet gravel.

Her hands were bound behind her back with silver steel handcuffs.

She did not look down.

She kept her chin high, her dark eyes fixed on Alexander.

“What is the meaning of this, Harris?” Alexander asked, his voice low and dangerous.

“We found the transmitter, Mr. Hawthorne,” Harris said, stepping down the stone steps.

He held up a clear plastic evidence bag containing a small black device with a blinking red light.

“It was hidden inside the vent of the guest house pantry,” Harris said.

“Along with these.”

He held up a second bag.