Abigail spoke gently.
"Anna, men like Ashcroft depend on everyone being afraid."
The servant looked down.
"We are afraid."
"I know."
Abigail touched her arm.
"But you don't have to face him alone."
Anna looked toward the stairs.
Then she nodded.
"I'll show you."
They followed her through a narrow passage.
Above them, the mansion was quiet.
The walls were covered in dark wood paneling.
Expensive carpets muffled their footsteps.
Portraits of stern-faced men hung beneath heavy gold frames.
Abigail felt as though she had entered another world.
A world built from money taken from families like hers.
They reached a staircase near the western wing.
Anna stopped.
"Two guards on the second floor."
Martha frowned.
"Can we avoid them?"
"There's a servants' stair behind the linen room."
She led them through a narrow corridor.
They climbed.
The house grew colder.
At the third floor, Anna paused before a heavy wooden door.
A small brass plate was fixed to it.
No name.
No number.
Just a lock.
Anna removed a key from her apron.
Abigail stared.
"You have the key?"
Anna nodded.
"I bring her meals."
She unlocked the door.
Inside was a small bedroom.
A narrow bed stood beneath the window.
A wooden desk occupied one corner.
Several books lay stacked beside it.
And near the window sat a young woman with dark curls.
She turned when the door opened.
Her face was pale.
Her eyes were cautious.
"Anna?"
The servant stepped aside.
Abigail entered.
"Emily?"
The young woman stared.
"Who are you?"
"My name is Abigail Whitmore."
Emily frowned.
"I don't know you."
"No."
Abigail approached slowly.
"But I know your father."
Emily went still.
"My father?"
"Yes."
For a moment, she looked as though she might cry.
Then her expression hardened.
"My father is dead."
Abigail stopped.
"What?"
Emily looked away.
"Mr. Ashcroft told me."
Martha closed her eyes.
Abigail felt anger rise in her chest.
"No, Emily."
The young woman stared at her.
"He's alive."
Emily shook her head.
"You're lying."
"I'm not."
"He died three years ago."
"No."
Abigail knelt beside her chair.
"Your father is Sheriff Nathaniel Crowe."
Emily's lips trembled.
"Yes."
"He's alive. He's in Silver Creek. And he's spent years trying to find you."
Tears filled Emily's eyes.
"No..."
Abigail reached into her pocket.
She removed the small photograph Crowe had given Martha.
It showed Emily as a little girl.
Abigail handed it to her.
Emily stared.
Then covered her mouth.
"That's me."
Abigail nodded.
"Your father kept it."
Emily began crying.
Not quietly.
Not carefully.
She cried with the terrible force of someone who had spent years believing she had been forgotten.
Abigail held her.
Martha turned away, wiping her eyes.
Anna stood beside the door, trembling.
After several minutes, Emily pulled back.
"He's really alive?"
Abigail nodded.
"Yes."
"Does he know I'm here?"
"He does now."
Emily looked toward the window.
"Then why hasn't he come?"
Abigail swallowed.
"Because Ashcroft lied to both of you."
Emily stared at her.
Then her expression changed.
"He'll kill us."
Martha stepped forward.
"Not if we leave now."
Emily looked frightened.
"The guards—"
"We'll handle them."
Anna glanced toward the hallway.
"We have to hurry."
Abigail helped Emily stand.
The young woman was weak from years of confinement, but she could walk.
They moved toward the door.
Then footsteps sounded outside.
Heavy.
Deliberate.
Anna froze.
A man's voice spoke.
"Anna."
Her face went white.
Edward Ashcroft.
He stood at the end of the corridor.
His silver-tipped cane rested against the carpet.
Two armed guards waited behind him.
For a moment, nobody moved.
Then Ashcroft smiled.
"Well."
He looked at Abigail.
"Miss Whitmore."
His gaze moved to Martha.
"Mrs. Bellamy."
Then to Emily.
"How disappointing."
Abigail stepped in front of the young woman.
"Let us pass."
Ashcroft chuckled.
"My dear, you are standing inside my house."
"Not for long."
He looked amused.
"Such confidence."
Martha folded her arms.
"Edward, you've grown uglier with age."
Ashcroft's smile faded.
"Martha."
"Still hiding behind hired guns, I see."
He ignored her.
His attention returned to Abigail.
"Where is the notebook?"
Abigail stared at him.
"Somewhere you'll never find it."
Ashcroft sighed.
"Your father was equally stubborn."
Abigail's expression hardened.
"You murdered him."
The older man tilted his head.
"Thomas Whitmore made unfortunate choices."
"You had him killed."
"He refused a generous offer."
Abigail stepped forward.
"Then he was a better man than you will ever be."
Ashcroft's eyes narrowed.
"Careful."
Martha moved beside Abigail.
"She's not afraid of you."
Ashcroft smiled coldly.
"She should be."
He raised one hand.
The guards lifted their rifles.
Emily gasped.
Anna began crying.
Abigail stood very still.
She thought of Daniel.
Of Rachel.
Of Lucy.
Of her father.
And of all the people who had suffered because of this man.
Then she spoke.
"If you kill us, the truth still reaches Denver."
Ashcroft's expression changed.
Abigail continued.
"The documents are on the train."
His jaw tightened.
"Are they?"
"Yes."
"And Daniel Mercer?"
She lifted her chin.
"Alive."
Ashcroft stared at her.
For the first time, she saw something beneath his polished calm.
Fear.
Not fear of bullets.
Not fear of death.
Fear of losing control.