The morning mist curled around Crosswind Manor like a second skin. Pale light filtered through the tall windows, casting long shadows across the marbled floors. The manor had gone quiet again—unnervingly so. Not the hush of peace, but of breath held, of secrets pressing against the walls.
Detective Inspector Locke stood in the study, staring at the space where Julian Blackthorne's journal had been.
Gone.
He hadn't moved it. He was certain. The desk was still locked—he had picked it open himself the night before. But now the drawer sat ajar, empty, save for a faint indentation on the blotter paper, the ghost of the journal's weight. A quiet theft. Someone had come back.
He turned slowly, scanning the room. No forced entry. No disturbed dust. Only the faint smell of lavender—someone had been wearing perfume.
Downstairs, Isobel Finch folded linens in the laundry room with mechanical precision. Her hands, usually so steady, trembled as she pressed the last towel into place. In her apron pocket was a slip of parchment. It had been left on her nightstand that morning, folded neatly in half.
There were only seven words, inked in a sharp, elegant hand:
"You were never meant to inherit anything."
She hadn't shown Locke. Not yet. She didn't know who to trust anymore. Avery had confessed—but that hadn't brought relief. It had only deepened the dread.
She pocketed the note again just as she heard footsteps echoing down the hallway.
Locke stepped out of the study, his gaze drawn toward the west wing. Something still nagged at him—a feeling of incompleteness. Avery's confession had tied up the murder neatly. Too neatly. Locke had learned long ago that real crimes were rarely clean.
He retraced his steps to the professor's private rooms. The bookshelves were untouched, the fireplace cold. But then—there. A narrow seam in the wood paneling behind the desk. Just barely visible. He pressed against it.
Click.
A hidden compartment swung open, revealing a small wall safe embedded in stone. Its dial had fresh scuff marks. Someone had tried to open it, and recently. Locke crouched to inspect it, brushing his fingers over the brass face. It was still locked.
He straightened, a chill creeping down his spine. The safe hadn't been in Avery's confession. And Avery hadn't known about the journal either.
Someone else was still playing the game.
Later that afternoon, Isobel found Locke in the drawing room, pacing before the cold hearth.
"I need to show you something," she said quietly, voice trembling.
She handed him the folded note. Locke read it once. Then again.
He looked up. "When did you receive this?"
"This morning. On my nightstand."
"Did anyone enter your room?"
"No… not that I saw."
Locke folded the note, slipping it into his coat. "Whoever wrote this doesn't just want to frighten you. They want you to doubt your place here."
"But Avery said—"
"Avery told the truth about the murder. But not about everything." Locke's gaze sharpened. "There are more secrets in this house, Isobel. And someone is desperate to keep them buried."
The manor creaked softly around them, the storm gone, but the air still heavy.
Loose ends.
And someone was tying them off… one by one.