They moved along the porch, peering into windows, wiping circles clear with glove palms. Candle stubs. Curtains drawn. A tree in the corner of the parlor, dulled by frost on the glass. Nothing stirred.
Then the sheriff’s gaze caught on the dining room window. The long one, the one that looked like a mouth.
He scraped away the frost.
And there they were.
Six Graysons and the old housekeeper, seated around a table set for Christmas. Their heads bowed as if in prayer, hands folded or gently touching the place settings. The goose sat in the center, browned and carved but untouched, the gravy boat full, the bread still whole. The candles had burned down to shallow puddles of wax, but the wicks were black.
Every face was pale in that peculiar way that made the living want to apologize for breathing.
No blood. No knife. No sign of struggle. Just a terrible stillness, arranged so neatly it felt deliberate.
Whitcomb didn’t speak for a moment. He was a practical man, and practicality hates a mystery it can’t bully into submission.
“Break it,” he said finally.
A volunteer lifted an axe. The first strike splintered the doorframe like dry bone. The second strike forced the bolt.
