make eye contact, and he turns into the yard and motions for me to follow.
When I catch up, he’s digging in the wild edge of the property. His spade, of course, does nothing—his ghost simply goes through the motions. When he turns to look at me, I understand, and I hurry back to the garage and grab my own spade. I take care not to strain myself. I have a fetus the size of a rice grain inside me—I doubt I can injure it lifting shovels of dirt. The ground is soft, the digging easy. I’m still careful.
“Is it Eliza?” I ask as I scoop up another shovelful.
Harold says nothing. Doesn’t seem to hear me. Just stares down at the spot, watching me dig. When my spade hits something with a hollow thump, he nods in satisfaction. I clear the object. It’s a box, and at first, I think it’s a casket, but then I see a trunk.
I bend and clear the dirt with my hands. There’s a huge brass latch, and I struggle to undo it. Then I brace myself for what’s inside as I yank it open and—
A trunk full of clothing.
I lift out a beautiful gown of green velvet. Something slides from it. A box. I pry that open to find antique jewels. I set the box aside and keep emptying the trunk. Clothing. It’s all Victorian women’s clothing until I reach the bottom and find a bag filled with gold bullion and bills.
I told her to leave. She said she didn’t have any money. I emptied my safe—a small fortune—slammed it down in front of her and rode off into the moors. She took the money along with her things.
I look up at Harold. “This is Cordelia’s. You buried it here.”
His chin inclines in the barest nod.
“You didn’t take the money or the jewels. Is that what you wanted to show me?”
A barely perceptible shake of his head, those eyes fixed on me. Waiting for me to figure it out.
“I name you Harold Shaw.”
He nods, but says nothing.
“I’m not sure what you want,” I say with some exasperation. “I’m not going to name you as her killer.”
His gaze meets mine, and I feel the message there.
“You want me to? But you ended her life to protect William, and I’m not sentencing you to . . .”
I trail off. If I name his crime, do I sentence him to anything? I presumed I would, but what if it only releases him?
“You need me to accuse you,” I say. “To name you as her killer so you can be free.”
A nod.
“Thank you for showing me this,” I say, nodding down at the trunk. “Thank you for not taking anything from it. Thank you, too, for doing what William could not, what would have destroyed him. He knows what you did, and he forgives you, and he is grateful. I am even more grateful.”
His face stays stiff, but relief passes behind his eyes. The relief of a man who committed a horrible crime for all the right reasons but has never reconciled that.
I straighten. “I name you, Harold Shaw, as the man who took the life of Cordelia Thorne to protect the lives of others.”
A soft sigh, the first sound I’ve ever heard from him. And with it, he fades into the night. I stand there, watching him go, and I sigh myself, an exhale of relief. It’s done. Now, it’s truly done.
I bend to the trunk. Museum-quality clothing, exquisite jewels and a small fortune in gold and pristine bills.
“Well, our child will want for little, William,” I murmur. “Thank you, Harold.”
I take the money bag, put the jewels in it, close the trunk and head for the house.
As I near the house, something flickers in my bedroom window, and my chest seizes. I hurry forward, and in that window, the drapes move, and I run faster, only to see an empty and open window, the new sheers fluttering in the summer breeze.
I take a deep breath and head to the garage where I return the shovel to its place and wash my hands. I should take the money and jewels inside, but I’m already late for Freya’s pub talk. So I put them into the car trunk for now.
I put the top down on the car and drive out into the gorgeous summer night. I’m ripping past the house when . . . the front door opens.
I catch the movement out of the corner of my eye and