Caleb’s voice remained low.

“Yes.”

Her hand struck the table.

“And you knew!”

“Not until near the end.”

“You should have told me immediately!”

“I should have.”

She stared at him.

He did not defend himself.

That somehow made her angrier.

“Get out.”

Caleb rose.

Thomas looked between them.

“Where?”

“Anywhere.”

“Eleanor—”

“GET OUT!”

Caleb walked to the door.

Before leaving, he placed the brass key on the table.

“Lock the house tonight.”

Then he disappeared into the rain.

He did not return by supper.

Nor by midnight.

Eleanor hated herself for noticing.

At dawn, Thomas found blood near the barn.

Not much.

A few drops.

Then more near the southern trail.

Caleb’s horse was gone.

So was his rifle.

Eleanor understood immediately.

He had gone after Mercer.

Alone.

“He’s protecting us,” Sarah said.

Eleanor looked at her eldest daughter.

“He’s keeping secrets.”

Sarah closed the book in her lap.

“So did Papa.”

The words landed painfully.

Sarah looked older than thirteen.

“Maybe good people keep secrets too.”

“Good people tell the truth.”

“Did you tell us you weren’t eating in Philadelphia?”

Eleanor froze.

Sarah continued softly.

“You used to say you’d eaten at the factory.”

Eleanor looked away.

“You hadn’t.”

“That’s different.”

“Is it?”

Sarah stood.

“You lied because you wanted us safe.”

Then she went upstairs.

Eleanor remained beside the cold fireplace.

On the table lay Daniel’s brass key.

She picked it up.

Something about it bothered her.

Daniel had worn it every day.

But what had it opened?

Not their Philadelphia home.

Not his trunk.

Not the factory locker.

She ran her thumb across the narrow teeth.

Then memory struck.

A music box.

Her grandmother’s music box.

The one Eleanor had believed she sold before leaving Philadelphia.

Except she hadn’t.

The buyer had refused it because the lock was broken.

Sarah had packed it.

Eleanor ran upstairs.

“Sarah!”

Her daughter startled.

“The music box. Grandmother’s.”

Sarah pointed beneath the bed.

Eleanor dragged out a battered trunk.

At the bottom beneath winter clothes sat the little walnut box.

Her hands shook.

She inserted Daniel’s key.

It turned.

A false wooden panel released from beneath the mechanism.

Inside was no ledger.

Only a folded paper.

Eleanor opened it.

Daniel’s handwriting.

Seven names. Seven dates. Seven numbers.

Sarah.

Thomas.

James.

William.

Margaret.

Catherine.

Edward.

Beside each child’s name was a number.

Eleanor stared.

“What does it mean?” Sarah asked.

“I don’t know.”

Then Thomas appeared in the doorway.

“Someone’s coming.”

Six riders entered the valley.

Caleb was not among them.

Silas Mercer rode in front.

Mrs. Cromwell rode behind him.

Eleanor’s blood went cold.

“Children, cellar.”

Thomas protested.

“No.”

“Now.”

“I can help.”

“You can help by keeping them safe.”

Sarah gathered the younger children.

Eleanor took Caleb’s shotgun from above the fireplace.

She had fired a weapon twice in her life.

Neither experience had inspired confidence.

Silas dismounted outside.

“Mrs. Hayes.”

Eleanor stepped onto the porch.

“Where is Caleb?”

Silas smiled.

“Your husband had an unfortunate encounter.”

Her grip tightened around the gun.

“Did you kill him?”

“I doubt it.”

“That isn’t an answer.”

“Caleb Roar is irritatingly difficult to kill.”

Mrs. Cromwell stepped forward.

Her pleasant office smile had vanished.

“We need something that belongs to your late husband.”