I feel a long breath leave my body as I quickly thumb through the rest of the envelopes on the table. They are all the same—all addressed to R. M. Wildsmith, all from the Getty Publishing Group.

But what are they doing here?

“Emma,” croaks a voice.

I whirl around.

Madeline Mitchell is standing behind me. Boomer’s tail goes crazy again, and he wags his way over to her. She gives him a stiff pat on the head. Of course if he’s been here, he must have met her before.

I’m still holding the letter in my hand. “Ms. Mitchell,” I say. I mean to let it go, but my grip around the sheet of paper only tightens. “I didn’t—I don’t— Where’s Fina?”

Her gaze lands on the letter. I’ve seen her before, of course, but I’ve never really seen her until now. The sunken cheeks and blue-gray eyes, the wispy eyebrows and silver hair, the shoulders knotted around her ears.

“You’d better come with me,” she says finally, without even looking at me. Her voice comes as a shock. Like hearing a painting speak. “Watch your step. I’m afraid I—I was startled to see you and your friend walking up the drive.”

She gestures to the broken glass, then turns around and disappears through a dark doorway.

After a second’s hesitation, I follow her through another kind of living room and into a study. A bright fireplace sends light dancing over the shelves and shelves of books stacked every possible way. The room is filled with the smell of their pages.

A big chair is in front of the fireplace, and nestled up in it is Fina. Her left foot is propped on a stool with a bag of frozen peas over her ankle.

“Emma!” she says, sitting up when she sees me.

“You’re okay,” I say breathlessly, rushing over to her. “I heard you yell, and by the time I found a way in—”

“Madeline brought me in,” Fina says. “She was just going to find you. She thinks I sprained my ankle.”

“That’s all?” I ask. “I thought you were really hurt or something.”

Fina makes a face. “It does hurt.”

“Would you like a s-seat?” Madeline asks quietly, gesturing toward a chair on the other side of the hearth. She still doesn’t quite look at me when she speaks. Her voice rattles like a cold wind blowing the last of the autumn leaves from the treetops.

“Okay,” I say uncertainly.

I can’t tell if she’s angry or not. She seems more nervous than anything. Her hands chase each other in circles on her lap as she takes a wooden rocking chair in the darkest corner of the study. Boomer circles around the room once, then lies down next to her.