The storm was gone, but Crosswind Manor hadn't exhaled.
Detective Inspector Locke stood alone in the manor's west hallway, staring at a cabinet that didn't quite sit flush with the wall. It had caught his eye earlier — a barely noticeable irregularity. Now, with the guests distracted and the morning light dull against the windowpanes, he acted.
Inside the cabinet was nothing but ledgers and brittle parchment — until he noticed a false back. He pried it free with his pocketknife.
Behind it: a sealed envelope.
Thick. Yellowed. Tied in red string, bearing Julian's unmistakable wax seal — a Roman gladius pressed into the wax.
Locke didn't open it there. He returned to the study, drew the curtains, and broke the seal under the flicker of a single lamp.
It was a second will, dated just two days before Julian's death. Not the one Isobel had described. Not the one Avery had admitted to hearing about.
This one was different.
It named no single heir.
Instead, it detailed an extensive reallocation of assets: the estate divided equally among multiple names — but none from the current guest list. A woman in London. A cousin in France. A long-forgotten friend from Julian's university years.
The Harringtons were cut out entirely.
Locke's eyes narrowed.
Why draft two wills within days of each other? And why hide this one?
He checked the handwriting. Familiar — but not consistent. Some lines were firm and deliberate. Others shaky, uneven.
Forged?
Or dictated under duress?
That afternoon, Locke summoned Victoria Blackthorne to the library.
She arrived in mourning black, a high-necked blouse and stiff composure. Her perfume was faint — jasmine and something sharper underneath.
"I found something in Julian's files," Locke said evenly. "A second will."
Her hand twitched.
He watched her carefully. "Are you familiar with it?"
"I... no," she said, too quickly. "He wrote so many things. Letters. Essays. I couldn't begin to know what he—"
"This one wasn't addressed to family," Locke interrupted. "In fact, he appears to have been divesting himself from your legacy altogether."
Silence.
Then, she inhaled sharply. "That sounds like him. Petty until the end."
"You forged documents once before, didn't you, Mrs. Blackthorne?"
A sharp glance. "Excuse me?"
"You and Douglas forged land receipts years ago to prevent Julian from selling part of the estate. He never reported it. But he wrote about it — in the journal. Which is now missing."
Victoria's composure slipped. "That journal was nothing but fantasy. He never truly forgave anyone."
"Except perhaps Isobel," Locke murmured. "And you resented him for it."
She stood abruptly. "I have nothing more to say to you."
But Locke didn't stop her. He'd seen what he needed — the way her eyes flickered when he mentioned Douglas. The way she hadn't denied forging the past.
Later, Locke reviewed the second will again.
Two signatures.
Julian's... and another.
Faded, but readable:
Harrington.
He closed the file.
The truth hadn't been buried — it had been divided.
And someone had ensured no one would ever see the full picture.
Not unless Locke kept digging.