Cold air rolled out of the manor, not the normal winter cold, but a colder cold, a kind that seemed to carry memory.
They entered single file with lanterns held high. Their boots left wet prints on the entry rug. The house smelled faintly of pine, spiced wine, and something like extinguished smoke.
The dining room door stood open.
They stepped into a scene that looked, at first glance, like a painting someone had forgotten to finish.
Thomas Grayson sat at the head of the table, posture straight, hands resting near his plate as though he’d been interrupted mid-sentence. Eleanor sat at the opposite end, her fingers still curled around the edge of a napkin. Samuel’s eyes were closed, his jaw set like a man determined to keep a promise. Margaret’s hand lay on a small stack of pages beside her plate, ink smeared as if she’d been writing until her pen slipped from her grip. Catherine sat stiffly, chin raised, almost defiant even in death. William leaned slightly toward his sister, as if seeking warmth that no longer existed. Mrs. Brennan, the housekeeper, sat between Eleanor and William, a rosary looped around her fingers.
On Thomas’s plate lay a single piece of bread, uneaten. Beside it, a glass of mulled wine.
Whitcomb leaned closer, then froze.
In the center of the table, between the goose and the candles, lay a leather-bound journal opened to a page with one line written in a steady hand.
If you are reading this, then we have done what we should have done long ago.
The sheriff swallowed.
