THE MAFIA BOSS FOUND HIS MAID TREMBLING BESIDE A BLOODSTAINED CABINET, BUT ONE HIDDEN MESSAGE SUGGESTED DANGER WAS ALREADY INSIDE HIS HOME.

I watched the video four times before Ronan took the phone gently from my hand.

"We know where she is," he said. "That gives us something to work with."

"Grant knows the house better than anyone. He'll see us coming."

"Then we don't make this a private rescue."

He called Diane and sent her the recording. Within minutes, she had connected us with Detective Mara Collins, a state investigator who had been reviewing the financial complaints outside Grant's local network. Collins spoke plainly. She couldn't promise Camila would be safe, but she could coordinate a response without relying on the mansion's compromised security team.

For the first time, someone with a badge asked me what I knew instead of what I had done wrong.

I told her everything. The warning under the cabinet. My crushed fingers. The voices in the service passage. The conservatory attack. The gun planted in my locker. I even told her about Mrs. Wynn and the photograph that had made me doubt her.

Collins listened without interrupting. Then she said, "We've detained Miles Keene in connection with the shooting at the reception. Thomas Bell's statement helped us establish probable cause. We have reason to believe Mercer may try to destroy documents tonight."

My mouth went dry. "So you think he'll hurt Camila."

"I think he wants leverage. That makes her immediate safety our priority."

Ronan stood beside the window, his phone in his hand. Blackthorn House waited beyond the dark hills, its long windows and stone towers hiding everything we'd failed to notice. He looked at me.

"Grant asked for me alone," he said. "I'll give the investigators a chance to position themselves, and I'll go to the front entrance when they tell me."

"You're going to let him put a pen in your hand?"

"A signature obtained under threat doesn't give him what he thinks it gives him. Diane has documented the demand."

"He's not afraid of a courtroom."

"No," Ronan said. "He's afraid of losing control before he can get rid of the proof."

Viola entered the room carrying the old brass key Mrs. Wynn had given me. The housekeeper stood behind her, pale and determined.

"There is a passage from the original laundry room to the east-wing stair," Mrs. Wynn told Collins. "Grant knows about the first door, but I don't believe he knows the passage continues beyond the wine cellar."

The detective considered her. "Why should I trust information from someone who admits passing details to Mercer?"

Mrs. Wynn lowered her head. "You shouldn't take my word alone. I'll show you the plans. Then you can decide what to do with me."

She laid a brittle building diagram on the table. The detective's team reviewed it while Ronan prepared to leave. I wanted to insist on going with him, but I had promised myself I would stop letting fear make all my decisions. I stayed with Collins and gave her every detail I knew about the east wing.

Ronan pulled on his coat. At the door, he paused in front of me.

"If anything goes wrong, follow the detective's instructions. Not mine."

"That's a strange thing for you to say."

"I'm learning to trust people who know more than I do."

I took his hand. "Come back."

His fingers closed around mine. "I'm going to try very hard."

He didn't kiss me. Somehow the promise felt more intimate without one.

At Blackthorn, the grounds were almost completely dark. Only the entrance hall and east wing glowed. The detective arranged for me to remain at a secure location near the estate while her officers worked. I agreed until I saw the feed from a camera overlooking the side courtyard.

A moving figure appeared at an upstairs window.

Camila.

She was pounding on the glass.

I grabbed Collins's arm. "That's her. She's not in the archive anymore."

The detective radioed her team. The figure disappeared, then returned behind a different window. She seemed to be following the rooms along the corridor, trying to signal where she was being taken.

"She's moving toward Henry's bedroom," I said. "The old vault is behind it."

Collins turned to me. "You're certain?"

"Camila told me."

The detective gave an instruction to an officer standing beside the service entrance. Within moments, I heard quiet movement through the headset. The police were inside the estate. Ronan was approaching the front door.

His call connected to Collins, and I heard Grant's voice through it.

"Welcome home," Grant said. "I was beginning to think you'd let the girl die for your company."

"Where is Camila?" Ronan demanded.

"Safe enough. For now."

"I brought the documents you asked for."

"Then come upstairs. Alone."

My chest ached with the effort of breathing normally. I pictured Ronan climbing the same grand staircase where he'd walked beside me on the night we found the warning. He had known that house all his life. It had never felt less like home.

A burst of static crackled through the connection. Then Margaret's voice emerged, smooth and bored.

"You know what you need to sign, Ronan. We aren't asking you to give away the company. Only to acknowledge that Mr. Mercer may manage trust assets without your interference during the investigation."

"You mean during the cover-up," Ronan said.

A sharp sound followed, like a hand striking a table.

"Don't test me," Grant warned.

In the monitoring room, Collins motioned everyone to stay quiet. Her officers were trying to reach the east-wing corridor before the conversation deteriorated.

Then the video feed changed. I saw a shadow slip through the pantry hallway near the old service stairs. It was Mrs. Wynn. She had been instructed to remain outside, but she'd ignored that order.

"She's inside," I whispered.

Collins swore under her breath and called her team. The camera showed Mrs. Wynn opening a cupboard at the end of the hallway. Behind it was the little servants' door she'd once used to hide me. She disappeared into the wall.

"She knows where Camila is," I said. "She wants to fix what she did."

"And she may put all of us at risk," Collins replied.

I couldn't argue with that.

Upstairs, Ronan spoke again. "Let me see Camila before I sign anything."

"She'll come when I say so," Grant answered.

There was a rustle of papers. Then a woman's scream.

My heart stopped.

"Elena!" Camila's voice rang faintly through the phone. "Don't believe them!"

I lunged toward the door, but Collins caught my wrist.

"She's alive," the detective said firmly. "Listen."

Through the headset came an unfamiliar noise: a heavy wooden door scraping open, followed by Mrs. Wynn's voice. "Miss Camila, this way!"

For a moment, everyone on the line seemed confused.

Then Margaret shouted, "Stop her!"

The next few seconds were a mess of footsteps, overturned furniture, and raised voices. The officers moved. Grant yelled that he had a gun. Ronan shouted for him to put it down. Somewhere in the east wing, a smoke alarm began to sound.

A security feed showed orange light flickering behind a doorway.

"Fire," an officer reported. "We've got fire in the archive."

Grant had set the records burning.

Smoke pushed into the corridor like a living thing. Firefighters had already been alerted, but the old wood paneling and dry records gave the flames too much to eat. The estate's aging fire doors failed to close. In the monitoring room, red warning icons appeared one after another.

"Where's Camila?" I asked.

The answer came from an officer on the east landing. "Female witness located with older staff member. Both moving toward the rear stairs."

I sagged against the wall in relief.

Then Collins's expression changed. "We have no visual on Ronan."

I stared at her. "What do you mean?"

"Our team heard him go toward the vault after the evacuation began. He's trying to retrieve something."

"The treatment log," I whispered.

Collins spoke into her radio. "Do not reenter for documents. Your life comes first."

No one answered.

Camila appeared minutes later beneath a blanket, supported by Mrs. Wynn and an officer. Her face was streaked with soot, but she was breathing and talking. I ran to her and wrapped my arms around her, the way I had at the ferry terminal. This time I held on with the absolute certainty that I wouldn't let go until someone made me.

"Where's Ronan?" she asked.

"Still inside."

Camila pulled away, horrified. "He went back because of me. I told him Henry wrote everything down."

"This isn't your fault," I said. "He made his own choice."

Grant emerged in handcuffs between two officers. His face was dirty, his expensive suit torn at the sleeve. He saw me holding Camila and smiled with a bitterness that made my skin crawl.

"Your hero wanted the old man's diary," he said. "Maybe he'll get buried with it."

I took one step toward him before Collins moved between us. Grant laughed, and an officer guided him away. Behind him, Margaret was escorted out through the front entrance, demanding a lawyer and insisting she'd known nothing about the fire.

Flames climbed behind the glass above the staircase. Firefighters arrived with equipment, and the garden filled with flashing lights. I watched from the terrace as the man I'd come to trust vanished somewhere beyond the smoke.

A firefighter came out carrying a small sealed metal box. Another followed him. Neither was Ronan.

A terrible cracking sound came from the east wing.

The roof above Henry Vale's old bedroom collapsed inward.