Denise stepped slightly in front of me, her breath coming in short, sharp gasps.

“Put the light down,” Nico said, his voice flat and devoid of warmth.

Denise lowered the flashlight, aiming the beam at the damp concrete floor.

The shadows stretched long and thin up the brick walls of the cellar.

Nico took two steps forward, his leather shoes clicking against the grit.

He looked immaculate, even in the dusty basement, his charcoal suit pressed and his dark hair combed back.

But his eyes were cold, fixed entirely on the parchment resting on the wooden crate.

“I figured you were digging,” Nico said, tilting his head.

“But I didn’t think you would find this old ghost.”

“It isn’t a ghost,” I said, my voice steadier than I felt.

“It’s the truth.”

“The truth is whatever people believe, Harper,” he replied.

He lowered the pistol slightly, but his grip remained tight on the handle.

“And for thirty years, they believed your mother was a thief.”

“Because your family made them believe it,” I said.

Nico let out a short, dry laugh that did not reach his eyes.