Twenty minutes later he watched from the window as the little red-haired girl tore across the lawn, launched herself at Lucas’s chair, and without a trace of fear said something that made his son throw his head back and laugh—really laugh—for the first time in months.
They disappeared behind the overgrown yew hedge that shielded the forgotten corner by the back wall. Alexander was about to turn away when Lily dropped to her knees in the mud and started digging like a terrier after a bone.
Lucas leaned forward, curious. Lily pulled something free, held it up to the light, and both children went very still.
Alexander’s skin prickled. He was moving before he realized it—down the grand staircase, across the terrace, boots slipping on wet leaves. By the time he reached them, Lily was holding out a filthy silver locket on a broken chain.
“Mr. Harrington,” she whispered, eyes huge. “Lucas says this was his mommy’s.”
The world narrowed to that small, mud-caked oval in her palm. Alexander knew it instantly—he had fastened it around Isabella’s neck on their wedding day. She had worn it every single day until the morning she went into labor. The funeral director had sworn it was buried with her.
His fingers shook so badly he nearly dropped it. The clasp still worked. Inside: two tiny photos—him and Isabella smiling in the garden—and tucked behind her picture, a fold of yellowed paper no bigger than a postage stamp.
He unfolded it with filthy nails.
Alexander, if you’re reading this, I’m already gone.
They’re poisoning me.
Trust no one.
Save our baby.
—Isa
He must have made a sound, because Lily took a step back and Lucas whispered, “Dad?”
Alexander looked at the mansion that had been his castle and suddenly saw only prison bars. “Lily, where exactly did you find this?”
She pointed to a patch of churned earth. “There’s more down there, sir. I felt a box.”
He sent the children inside with Elena, voice cracking like ice on a winter pond. Then he fell to his knees in the mud and dug with his bare hands until his fingers hit rotted wood.
Inside the box: forty-three letters in Isabella’s handwriting, every one addressed to him but never delivered.
He read them there on the wet ground while the sky threatened rain, and each word was a fresh wound.