The man walked across the motel parking lot with the unhurried stride of someone who had never been afraid of anything in his life. He was tall and angular, his gray suit too heavy for the mountain summer, his black shoes gleaming even in the fading light. His hair was cropped close to the scalp, silver-white, and his face was a mask of professional neutrality. But his eyes—even at a distance, even through the grimy window of a cheap motel room—were cold. Flat and gray and utterly devoid of warmth, like the eyes of a fish that had been dead for a long time but somehow continued to move.
Cassia backed away from the window, her heart hammering. The phone was still in her hand, Finnick's number still ringing unanswered. She dropped it on the bed and looked around the room for something—anything—that could serve as a weapon. The lamp on the nightstand. The chair by the door. The ice bucket, which was plastic and useless. She had never been in a situation like this. She was an archivist, a cataloguer of other people's lives, a woman whose most dangerous daily activity was lifting heavy boxes of records. She was not prepared for a confrontation with a man who had, if Gideon was telling the truth, murdered Elara Ashford and let someone else take the blame for sixteen years.
The knock on the door was three sharp raps, businesslike, almost polite.
"Miss Vance." The voice was low and smooth, with the accent of someone who had been educated in expensive schools and had never lost the sense of entitlement that came with them. "I know you're in there. I saw you come back from the diner. I'd like to talk."
Cassia didn't answer. She moved toward the lamp, her fingers closing around its ceramic base. It wasn't much, but it was heavy enough to do damage if she swung it hard.
"I'm not here to hurt you," the voice continued. "If I wanted to hurt you, I wouldn't have knocked. I would have waited until you were asleep. Please. Open the door. I think we have a great deal to discuss."
Something in the tone—not friendly, but not threatening either—made Cassia hesitate. She thought about what Gideon had told her. The man with the cold eyes had been in the house before him. The man with the cold eyes had killed Elara. But Gideon had also said that he didn't see the man's face clearly. What if he was wrong? What if the man in the parking lot was not the killer, but someone who was searching for the truth just like she was?
She didn't believe that. Not really. But she also knew that if the man wanted her dead, she would already be dead. He had followed her to Wrenhaven. He knew where she was staying. He could have acted at any time. The fact that he was knocking on her door instead of breaking it down suggested that he wanted something other than violence.
She set down the lamp, crossed the room, and opened the door a crack, leaving the chain on.
"My name is Alden Cross," the man said. "I'm an attorney from Kennebec. I represent the Whitmore family. And I believe you and I are looking for the same thing."
"Cross," Cassia repeated. "That's Sebastian's name."
"Yes. I'm aware." A flicker of something—irritation, perhaps, or impatience—crossed the man's cold features. "May I come in? This conversation will be more comfortable if we're not shouting through a door."
Cassia hesitated for another moment. Then she unlatched the chain and opened the door. Alden Cross stepped inside, his eyes sweeping the room with the quick, assessing gaze of someone who was accustomed to evaluating threats. He took the chair by the door, leaving Cassia to sit on the edge of the bed.
"You said your name is Cross," Cassia said. "What's your connection to the Whitmores?"
"I'm the family's attorney. I have been for thirty-seven years. I served Theodore Whitmore during his time in the Senate, and I've served his brother, his nephew, and his niece since his death. I handle matters of a sensitive nature for the family. Matters that require discretion." He paused, his gray eyes studying her face. "Matters like the one you've been investigating."
"You mean the murder of Elara Ashford."
"I mean the events of October 1997. The murder, yes. But also the events that led up to it. The letters. The reunion. The will. All of it."
Cassia felt a surge of anger. "You're admitting it. You're admitting that the Whitmore family sent the letters. That they orchestrated the whole thing."
"I'm admitting nothing of the kind." Alden Cross's voice was calm, unruffled. "I'm here because the Whitmore family is concerned about the recent developments in Havenmoor. The discovery of Mrs. Ashford's diary. The reopening of interest in the case. The fact that an archivist from the Historical Society has been asking questions that have not been asked in sixteen years. The family is concerned that certain information may come to light—information that is not only damaging to the family's reputation, but also dangerous to certain individuals."
"Dangerous to whom?"
"To Cora Lindqvist, for one. To you, for another." Alden Cross leaned forward, his cold eyes intent. "You've been to see her. You know what she witnessed. You know who was involved. What you may not know is that there are people—people other than the Whitmores—who would prefer that the truth remain buried. People who have a great deal more to lose than a political reputation."
"The senator's family has more to lose than a reputation. They could be prosecuted for conspiracy to commit murder."
"If the allegations were true, yes. But the Whitmores did not conspire to commit murder. They conspired—if that is even the right word—to protect themselves from a scandal that would have destroyed them. They sent letters, yes. They brought the parties together, yes. But they did not know that someone was going to die. They did not anticipate that the storm would provide a cover for homicide. They were reckless, perhaps. Negligent, certainly. But they are not murderers."
"Then who is?"
Alden Cross was silent for a long moment. Outside, the last light was fading from the sky, and the parking lot was growing dark. The motel's neon sign flickered on, casting a pale blue glow through the window.
"I've been trying to answer that question for sixteen years," he said finally. "The Whitmores hired me to contain the situation. To make sure the truth about Theodore's affair never became public. I was the one who went to Havenmoor after the storm. I was the one who questioned Otto Lindqvist about what his daughter had seen. I was the one who has been searching for Cora Lindqvist ever since—not to hurt her, but to make sure she was safe, and to find out what she knew."
"You frightened her. She and her father fled Havenmoor because of you."
"I know." For the first time, something like regret flickered in Alden Cross's eyes. "I was too aggressive. I was too focused on protecting the Whitmores, and I didn't realize that I was terrorizing a child. By the time I understood what I had done, Otto had taken Cora and disappeared. I've been looking for her ever since, trying to make amends."
Cassia studied his face, trying to determine if he was telling the truth. His eyes were still cold, his expression still unreadable, but there was something in his voice—a weariness, a resignation—that suggested he was not entirely without conscience.
"Gideon Ashford called me this afternoon," she said. "He admitted he was at Windfall House during the storm. He said he walked into the library and found his mother already dead. He said he saw another man leaving through the conservatory—a man with cold eyes. A man who matches your description."
Alden Cross's expression didn't change. "I was not in Havenmoor on the night of the storm. I was in Kennebec, at my office, monitoring the hurricane on the radio. I have witnesses who can confirm this—my secretary, my wife, my son. Gideon Ashford did not see me leaving Windfall House."
"Then who did he see?"
"I don't know." Alden Cross stood up, pacing the small room. "But I've spent sixteen years trying to find out. The Whitmore family has spent a fortune on private investigators, on forensic accountants, on legal fees. We've been trying to piece together what happened that night, because the alternative—the alternative is that someone else was involved. Someone we don't know about. Someone who is still out there."
"Someone with cold eyes."
"Yes." Alden Cross stopped pacing and turned to face her. "The Whitmores have many enemies. Political rivals. Business competitors. People who would benefit from the family's destruction. It's possible that one of those enemies learned about the letters, learned about the plan, and decided to take advantage of the situation. It's possible that someone sent their own agent to Havenmoor that night, someone who saw an opportunity to kill Elara Ashford and let Gideon take the blame."
"That's a very convenient theory."
"It's the only theory that fits the facts." Alden Cross reached into his jacket and pulled out a folded piece of paper. "This is a list of names. People who had the motive, the means, and the opportunity to be in Havenmoor on the night of the storm. I've been investigating them for years. Most of them are dead now, or in prison, or too old to be a threat. But there are a few who are still alive. Still powerful. Still dangerous."
Cassia took the paper and unfolded it. The list was handwritten, the names unfamiliar. There were a dozen of them, each accompanied by a brief notation about their connection to the Whitmores and their potential involvement in the Ashford case.
"Why are you giving this to me?"
"Because you've done something that I've been unable to do. You've found Cora Lindqvist. You've earned her trust. She might be willing to talk to you in a way she would never talk to me. And because—" He paused, his jaw tightening. "Because I'm old, Miss Vance. I'm seventy-four years old. I've spent my entire career protecting the Whitmore family, and I've done things I'm not proud of. I want to find out the truth before I die. I want to know who really killed Elara Ashford, and why. I think you might be the person who can finally answer that question."
Cassia looked at the list, then back at Alden Cross. She didn't trust him. She didn't trust anyone connected to the Whitmore family. But she also believed that he was telling the truth about one thing: he wanted to know who the real killer was.
"What about Cora?" she asked. "The man with the cold eyes—whoever he is—is still out there. She's in danger."
"I know. I've posted security at her cabin since this afternoon. A private firm based out of Kennebec. They're discreet, but they're effective. No one is going to hurt Cora Lindqvist." Alden Cross walked to the door and paused, his hand on the knob. "I'm staying at the lodge in Wrenhaven. If you need anything—information, resources, protection—call me. I'll do what I can."
"What about Finnick Hale? The meteorologist. He's been helping me."
"Finnick Hale is a fool." Alden Cross's voice hardened. "He's been pursuing his own theories for years, and he's wrong about most of them. The Whitmores did not orchestrate a murder. We made mistakes, but we are not killers. Don't let him convince you otherwise."
He opened the door and stepped out into the night. Cassia watched him cross the parking lot, his tall figure silhouetted against the neon glow of the motel sign. The dark sedan started with a soft purr and pulled away, its taillights disappearing down the highway toward Wrenhaven.
She closed the door and leaned against it, her mind spinning. Alden Cross. The Whitmore family. A list of potential suspects. A security detail at Cora's cabin. And the suggestion that someone else—someone still unknown—had been in Windfall House on the night of the storm.
She looked at the list again. The names were unfamiliar, but one of them caught her eye. A notation at the bottom of the page, written in smaller script than the rest:
V. Drummond (deceased 1989) — midwife at St. Agatha's. Possible connection to adoption records. Daughter still living? Check Millbrook.
Vera Drummond. The midwife whose clock had hidden the diary. The woman who had signed Gideon and Sebastian's birth certificates. Alden Cross was suggesting that Vera Drummond might have known more about the adoption than she had ever revealed—and that her daughter might still be alive.
Cassia folded the list and tucked it into her bag. She would call Finnick in the morning and tell him about the conversation with Alden Cross. She would go back to Cora's cabin and make sure the security detail was real. And then she would start working through the names on the list, one by one, until she found the truth.
Outside, the wind was picking up again. Another storm was coming, not a hurricane this time, but a summer thunderstorm that was building over the mountains. Cassia could hear it in the distance, the low rumble of thunder, the first patter of rain against the window.
She thought about Elara Ashford, sitting in her library sixteen years ago, listening to the storm approach. She thought about Cora Lindqvist, a seven-year-old child hiding in a boathouse, watching the devil walk through the hurricane. And she thought about Alden Cross, a seventy-four-year-old lawyer who had spent his life protecting a family of politicians, and who was now, perhaps, trying to make amends.
The thunder was closer now, and the rain was falling harder. Cassia lay down on the motel bed and closed her eyes, but she did not sleep. She was listening to the storm, and thinking about the man with the cold eyes, and wondering if he was really out there somewhere, waiting for the right moment to strike.
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