The fire was meant to kill me.
Someone else died instead.
I let the town believe it was me.
I thought a dead man could move more freely than a living one.
I was wrong.
Lydia could barely see through her tears.
If I survive, I will come for you.
If I don’t, trust Silas.
He will hate me for putting you in his path.
But he will protect you because he is the one good thing our family ever produced.
And Lydia—
The debts they brought to your door were false.
You never owed them anything.
Lydia dropped the letter.
For several seconds, she couldn’t speak.
“My house.”
Silas stared at her.
“My furniture.”
Her voice broke.
“The mill.”
She grabbed the ledger.
There it was.
MARSH MILL.
Beside it:
False lien.
Transfer ordered by G. Vale.
Correction filed.
Original ownership: Lydia Marsh.
Lydia pressed both hands over her mouth.
She had not been poor.
She had been robbed.
Every humiliation.
Every auction.
Every whisper.
Every creditor pounding on her door.
Built upon paper crimes created by her own husband.
Silas turned away.
Lydia looked at him.
“You knew he was capable of this.”
“I knew he could lie.”
“You knew.”
“I didn’t know this.”
She struck him across the chest.
Once.
Then again.
“Your brother destroyed people’s lives.”
Silas didn’t stop her.
“He destroyed mine.”
“I know.”
“He made me bury him.”
“I know.”
“He sent me into the mountains without telling me why!”
“I know.”
Lydia raised her fist again.
Silas caught it gently.
“I know.”
She broke then.
Silas pulled her against him.
Lydia sobbed into the coat of a man who had been a stranger eleven days earlier.
His arms tightened around her.
And neither noticed the sound outside until a body collapsed against the door.
Silas released her instantly.
Rifle raised.
The door shuddered beneath another impact.
A voice came through the wood.
Weak.
Familiar.
“Silas.”
Lydia stopped breathing.
Silas’s face went white.
The voice came again.
“Open the damned door.”
Lydia knew that voice.
She had fallen asleep beside it for three years.
She had heard it laugh across a breakfast table.
Heard it whisper that everything would be fine.
Heard it promise he’d be home before supper on the morning he supposedly died.
Silas slowly lifted the bar.
The door swung inward.
A man collapsed across the threshold.
His beard was longer.
His face gaunt.
Blood soaked his coat.
But Lydia recognized him instantly.
Her dead husband looked up from the floor.
“Hello, Lyd.”
Lydia slapped him so hard his head struck the doorframe.
Silas almost looked impressed.
Daniel coughed.
“I deserved that.”
“You deserve a grave.”
“I’ve already got one.”
She slapped him again.
Daniel Croft—Daniel Marsh—spent the next hour bleeding on Silas’s table while Lydia discovered there were limits to how furious a woman could remain when the father of her child was dying in front of her.
The bullet had passed through his side.
Silas cleaned the wound.
Lydia refused to help.
At least for the first ten minutes.
Then Daniel nearly lost consciousness.
She brought water.
Not forgiveness.
Water.
When Silas finished, Daniel opened his eyes.
“You found the box.”
Lydia held up his letter.
“I found everything.”
Daniel looked away.
“Then you know.”
“I know you were a thief.”
“Yes.”
“A fraud.”
“Yes.”
“A coward.”
Daniel flinched.
“Yes.”
Lydia’s voice shook.
“You let me bury you.”
“I thought you were safer believing I was dead.”
“You thought wrong.”
“I know.”
