Still in shock after a horrific encounter, I stare wide-eyed down at a dead man I’ve never seen before. Young, perhaps thirty, with dark clothes and neatly combed hair. And a blue handled screwdriver sticking out of his neck.

“Miss Porter.”

I scream faintly at Sam’s address, heart still pounding fiercely in my chest as he holds me up.

“Are you alright?”

No. My throat hurts and I’m terrified. I want nothing more than to break down in sobs and hysterics. But something like that must sound pathetic at a time like this.

“I’m—I’m al-alright…”

Sam turns me abruptly from the body, gripping me tightly in an embrace. I cling to him, shaking so badly I can barely stand.

It’s a relief to be in his arms. I haven’t felt a comforting male embrace since my grandfather passed away. His strong arms and broad chest, the scent of motor oil and even his sweat, somehow it’s all so reassuring. I could stay like this forever.

“Let’s get you inside, Miss Porter. I must speak to your father immediately.”

Sam helps me walk back to the house. I’m grateful for his presence. It’s the only thing keeping me from fainting at every single shadow.

I know my father’s still awake from the light that burns in his office window. Sam helps me to it, and opens Father’s door without knocking. He swears at us, then drops the letter he’s holding when he sees the state I’m in.

“Good God, Frances, what happened?”

“Someone attacked me. Sam—”

“I took care of him, Mr. Porter.”

Father swears and heads back outside with Sam to assess the situation, for now forgetting me, leaving me alone in his office.

I don’t like it. I don’t want to be alone. I walk over to the window to see the two men hurrying off into the darkness. I wrap my arms around my shivering frame and glance at Father’s desk. I note the letter he was reading, the signature at the bottom.

Lady Charlotte.

The old woman who wanted Chopin…

Father returns to his office some time later. I stir from the corner chair where I was dozing.

“Are you still here? I should have had a servant make you something hot and put you to bed.”

“It’s alright. Did the police come?”

“Yes, everything’s been taken care of.”

“They didn’t arrest Sam, did they? He was only protecting me.”

“No, no, of course not. The police understood the situation completely.”

I rise from my chair and walk over to him. “Who was he, Father? Why did he try to kill me?”

“He wasn’t trying to kill you. He was a kidnapper after the Porter fortune.”

“But he tried to strangle me—”

“Don’t dwell on, it Frances,” he says, putting his hands on my shoulders. “The man is dead, it’s over now, that’s all that matters. Now get some sleep and do your best to forget this whole incident.”

“Forget?”

“That’s an order, Frances.”

I blink at him, confused. I can’t understand any of it, but I’m too tired to argue with him. For now, I’ll do as he says.

Perhaps things will make more sense in the morning…

“I can’t understand. Why shouldn’t the police want to interview me?”

I sit at a late breakfast with my father, who looks as though he’s barely slept.

“I told you, they’ve taken down all the statements they needed.”

“But I’m the only witness besides Sam, it doesn’t make sense that they wouldn’t have any questions for me.”

“Are you going to tell the police how to do their business now?” he shoots me a dark glare, warning me to drop the subject. I give in with a faint sigh of resignation.

“Were they able to identify the body?” I ask.

“Just some common thug.”

“Do you think they’d let me examine him? I’d like to take a closer look, see if I recognize him.”

“I thought I told you last night to forget about it. Just forget it ever happened. Don’t speak of it, don’t look into it, and don’t you dare go to the police and ask to see any dead bodies, have I made myself clear?”

Ah. I see now.

Father never phoned the police. They have no idea a man was killed on our property last night. He swept this body under the rug the same way he let Harrison’s body be swept under the rug, neatly and quietly.

I’m starting to wonder how many other bodies he’s got buried out behind our property…

“Frances?” he prompts me when I do not answer him immediately.

“Alright, Father. I won’t speak of it to anyone.”

“Good girl,” he wipes his mouth with his napkin and rises. “Have to go at the factory, now. It will be another late night.”

“With Miss Appletree?”

He shoots me an irritated look.

“Not you, too.”

I shake my head. “I know you’re not that kind of person, Father. But shouldn’t you explain to Mother? You know she suspects the two of you are having an affair.”

“I’ve tried! But what’s the use of explaining anything to a pickled vegetable?”

“I saw the letter on your desk last night, from Lady Charlotte,” I say, and I watch his eyes slowly harden.

“And?” he prompts me, aggravated. Impatient.

“You should tell Mother. She’d understand.”

“When has that woman ever understood a single thing I’ve tried to do?” he grumbles. “Your mother will be fine on her own. She’s got a new bottle of pills from Dr. Bridger. They’ll keep her occupied for the next week or so…”

I watch Father go with a mixture of feelings in my breast. Pity, worry, disappointment, but mostly, confusion.

Perhaps a walk will clear my thoughts…

It’s a cool, cloudy day. Trees that before were ablaze with color are fast shedding their leaves with each new chilly gust of wind, leaving behind bare black skeletons. My feet carry me back to the annex, to the scene of the attack last night.

Unsurprisingly, the sight has been swept clean. There are no tracks to indicate a scuffle, not a single drop of blood. And, of course, no evidence of the police ever having been here.

A kidnapper, Father said. It makes sense, in theory. Taking Duane Porter’s eldest daughter, they might have put any number at all on my head and expected to see it paid for my ransom.

But that’s just the trouble. I don’t think they did want to ransom me.

I think they wanted to kill me.

I circle the annex slowly, looking for the attacker’s hiding spot. He might have had accomplices. If I can locate his footprints, I might learn more.

Coming around to the back side of the annex just to the right of the big windows of the room where I play piano, I stop short at the sight of dozens of cigarette butts littering the ground. I stoop to examine them, wondering what it could mean. Then a voice behind me causes me to jump with a little yelp.

“Find a clue, Miss Porter?”

“Sam, you startled me!” I accuse, straightening. He’s wearing thick work trousers and a worn out flannel shirt smeared with a black, greasy substance. His ever-shifting hazel eyes are brownish gold in this light, I note, and they crinkle faintly at the corners in a greeting.

“I see you found my trash.”

“I wondered if these were yours,” I say, indicating to the used up cigarettes. I guess that explains how he got to me so quickly last night. “Do you always take your smoke breaks here?”

“Only after dark,” he says, and I blink at him in confusion. “When you happen to be playing,” he adds, and I feel my mouth go a bit dry.

“You listen to me play?”

He shrugs with a somewhat guilty expression. “It’s not something a man like me would get to hear, ordinarily. Fancy music played on a grand piano like that.”

“It’s hardly fancy…”

“Well, I wouldn’t know about that,” he says, watching me in a way that makes me squirm just a bit in my boots…