"Because you're not like him."
Rachel stared at him.
He continued.
"Anger can make you want to do things you'd never otherwise consider. That doesn't mean you have to become the kind of person who does them."
Rachel wiped her eyes.
"I hate him."
"You have every reason to."
"But I don't want to spend the rest of my life hating him."
Daniel placed a hand on her shoulder.
"Then don't."
Crowe approached.
He examined Voss.
"He's alive."
Daniel nodded.
"Good."
Crowe looked surprised.
"Good?"
"Dead men don't testify."
The sheriff glanced at the ledger.
Daniel followed his gaze.
"That book may be the most important thing in this house."
Crowe picked it up.
He opened the first page.
Names filled the columns.
Payments.
Dates.
Property descriptions.
Railroad contracts.
And beneath several entries, short handwritten notes.
Crowe turned a page.
His expression changed.
"Dear God."
Daniel looked at him.
"What?"
Crowe held up the ledger.
"Samuel Price."
Rachel stood.
"What about him?"
Crowe pointed to an entry.
Price, Samuel — removal authorized.
Beneath it was a date.
The night of the murder.
And beside it, a signature.
C. Voss.
Rachel stared at the page.
Tears filled her eyes.
"He ordered it."
Crowe nodded grimly.
"Yes."
Daniel looked down at Voss.
For a moment, he felt the old temptation to settle matters with a bullet.
Then he thought of Eleanor.
Of Samuel.
Of Thomas Whitmore.
And of all the people who had died because powerful men believed they would never be held accountable.
He looked toward Crowe.
"Keep him alive."
The sheriff nodded.
"I will."
A distant gunshot echoed through the mansion.
All three turned.
Then another.
Rachel reached for her revolver.
"Abigail."
Daniel's expression changed.
He looked toward the stairs.
"Where is she?"
"Third floor. With Emily and Martha."
Daniel started toward the door.
Crowe caught his arm.
"Daniel, you're wounded."
He pulled free.
"She's up there."
"Let me go."
Daniel looked at him.
"You take Voss."
Then he turned toward Rachel.
"Come with me."
They ran toward the staircase.
Above them, the mansion shook with the sound of shouting, gunfire, and breaking glass.
Edward Ashcroft had not yet surrendered.
And the most dangerous man in the county was preparing his final escape.
On the third floor, Abigail stood beside the open bedroom door.
Emily Crowe had been taken downstairs by Anna and Martha moments earlier, while Sheriff Crowe and Rachel searched for the source of the gunfire.
But Ashcroft had disappeared.
The guards who had accompanied him were gone.
And somewhere within the mansion, a heavy door had slammed.
Abigail knew he was trying to escape.
She also knew he would not leave without destroying whatever evidence remained.
She looked toward the western corridor.
A faint smell drifted through the air.
Smoke.
Her stomach tightened.
She followed it.
The corridor ended at a locked wooden door.
Smoke seeped beneath the frame.
Abigail tried the handle.
Locked.
She stepped backward.
Then struck the door with her shoulder.
Pain shot through her arm.
The door did not move.
She tried again.
Nothing.
Then she heard a voice behind her.
"Looking for something, Miss Whitmore?"
Abigail turned.
Edward Ashcroft stood near the staircase.
He carried a small leather case.
His silver-tipped cane rested in his right hand.
His expression was calm.
Almost amused.
Abigail glanced toward the smoke.
"You're burning the records."
Ashcroft smiled.
"Some papers are better left unread."
She stared at him.
"You can't destroy everything."
"No."
He took a step closer.
"But I can destroy enough."
Abigail looked toward the staircase.
No one was coming.
Not yet.
Ashcroft noticed.
"Your friends are occupied."
She lifted her chin.
"They'll find you."
"Perhaps."
He looked at her thoughtfully.
"You remind me of Eleanor."
Abigail's expression hardened.
"You've said that before."
"Because it's true."
He approached slowly.
"She had the same eyes. The same stubbornness. The same unfortunate belief that truth mattered more than survival."
Abigail did not move.
"Truth does matter."
Ashcroft sighed.
"My dear, truth is whatever the powerful can persuade others to believe."
She shook her head.
"Not anymore."
He smiled.
"You think a crowd of angry farmers can defeat me?"
"I think they already have."
For the first time, anger flashed across his face.
"You know nothing about what I've built."
"I know you stole land from families who trusted the law."
"I created wealth."
"You created suffering."
"I brought the railroad here."
"And used it to control the people who depended on it."
"I built mines."
"And ignored warnings until men died."
Ashcroft's eyes narrowed.
"Your father was always sentimental about those miners."
Abigail felt something cold settle inside her.
"He saved their lives."
"He saved a handful."
"He saved people you were willing to sacrifice."
Ashcroft stepped closer.
"Your father was a fool."
Abigail stared at him.
Then she said quietly, "No."
The older man paused.
"My father was a man who knew the difference between what something cost and what it was worth."
Ashcroft's expression darkened.
"And what did that wisdom earn him?"
Abigail felt tears rise.
But she did not look away.
"It earned him daughters who won't let you win."
For a moment, Ashcroft stared at her.
Then he struck her.
The blow knocked Abigail against the wall.
Pain exploded through her cheek.
She fell to one knee.
Ashcroft stood over her.
"You should have stayed in your little farmhouse."
Abigail looked up.
Blood touched her lip.
She wiped it away.
Then she smiled faintly.
"You should have left us alone."
Ashcroft's expression changed.
A voice sounded behind him.
"Step away from her."
Daniel Mercer stood at the far end of the corridor.
His revolver was drawn.
Rachel stood beside him.
Ashcroft slowly turned.
"Daniel."
Daniel's eyes moved toward Abigail.
She was sitting against the wall.
Her cheek was bruised.
But she was alive.
His expression hardened.
"Move away from her."
Ashcroft smiled.
"You look worse every time I see you."
Daniel did not answer.
Rachel stepped forward.