Rook looked at her.

Something in his eyes changed.

For the first time, Mercy saw fear.

Not of Thomas.

Of her.

Why?

Then Ben entered the kitchen carrying Daisy.

Rook’s gaze snapped toward the doll.

His face emptied.

Mercy noticed.

So did Caleb.

Ben stopped.

Rook whispered:

“Where did you get that?”

Ben clutched Daisy.

“It’s mine.”

Rook moved toward him.

Mercy stepped in front of the boy.

“You don’t touch him.”

Rook stared over her shoulder.

At the doll.

And suddenly Mercy understood one thing.

Whatever Ruth had hidden—

Silas Rook believed it might still be inside Daisy.

Rook’s pleasant mask vanished.

“Give me the doll.”

“No,” Mercy said.

Sheriff Pell finally looked up.

“What’s this about?”

“Nothing.”

Rook reached.

Ben screamed and backed away.

Caleb shoved Rook.

Everything happened at once.

One of Rook’s men struck Caleb.

Thomas broke free.

Jonah grabbed a fireplace poker.

The twins overturned a chair.

Sheriff Pell shouted.

Ben stumbled.

Rook seized Daisy.

The doll tore.

Its faded blue dress ripped from shoulder to waist.

Something metallic struck the floor.

A silver object spun beneath the table.

Rook stopped.

Mercy dropped to her knees.

His voice came sharp and desperate.

“Don’t.”

Her hand closed around a small oval locket.

Old.

Scratched.

She knew it before she opened it.

Her entire body knew.

Mercy pressed the catch.

The locket opened.

On one side was the faded image of a young woman.

Dark hair.

Serious eyes.

Nineteen years old.

Mercy stared at

her own face.

On the other side—

A young man smiled toward the camera.

No scar.

No gray hair.

No expensive coat.

But Mercy knew those eyes.

She had dreamed of them for years.

Her fingers began shaking.

“No.”

Rook took one step backward.

Mercy looked up.

Not at Silas Rook.

At the ghost she had buried.

The years fell away.

She saw a young man sitting beside a river, promising he would build her a yellow house.

She saw him pressing that locket into his shirt pocket.

She saw him kissing her forehead the morning he left.

She remembered the joke they had shared about his missing fingertip after a mill accident.

Mercy’s gaze dropped.

Rook’s glove had torn during the struggle.

His left hand was exposed.

The tip of his ring finger was missing.

Mercy stopped breathing.

Thomas looked from the photograph to Rook.

“Mercy?”

Her voice came out as a whisper.

“His name isn’t Silas Rook.”

Rook’s face hardened.

Mercy stood.

Tears burned her eyes.

She spoke the name she had not allowed herself to say with love in fifteen years.

“Samuel Harlan.”

The room went dead.

Sheriff Pell frowned.

“What?”

Rook shook his head.

“She’s confused.”

Mercy laughed.

The sound frightened even her.

“Am I?”

She held up the locket.

“I gave you this beside the Green River bridge.”

Rook said nothing.

“You told me you’d carry it until we were old.”