He had been a friend of Garrett’s for forty years.

Victoria’s grip on my shoulder tightened until it hurt.

“Answer him,” she whispered.

“Tell him we are signing the papers.”

“Tell him everything is fine.”

I looked down at the pen in my hand.

I looked at the signature line on the document.

The paper was smooth and white.

It looked like a sheet of ice.

I thought of Garrett’s voice in my head.

*Don’t let them rewrite the story, El.*

The stairs outside began to creak under a heavy weight.

Someone was walking up to the second floor.

The footsteps were slow and steady.

“Eleanor,” Charles pleaded, his face pale as paper.

“Please.”

The doorknob of the study began to turn.

The wood of the door frame groaned as the knob clicked.

The heavy oak door swung inward, revealing Sheriff Arthur Miller standing in the threshold.

His tan uniform was immaculate, smelling of laundry starch and the damp autumn air from outside.

He held his wide-brimmed hat in one hand, his fingers resting near the leather holster at his hip.