Five years ago when I came home from France for Leland’s funeral, it had hit me like a physical blow the first time I walked into his office at home and saw his desk strewn with papers and bills, his favorite coffee mug with the Montgomery family crest stenciled on it next to his computer, and the beautiful lapis-and-silver Montblanc fountain pen my mother had given him lying there as if he’d gotten up for a moment and intended to be right back. I found more reminders throughout the house of just how abruptly his life had been interrupted—a half-read biography of Robert E. Lee open on his nightstand, the remembered scent of Floris’s JF, his favorite cologne, on a tweed blazer draped over a chair, a scribbled phone number on a pad next to the telephone in the kitchen for the garage in Aldie where he got his truck repaired and a price quote with five exclamation marks next to it.

He wasn’t done with living. He expected to have more time.

Whatever was in this envelope was also probably only part of a story, something Leland had left for safekeeping and to which he intended to return. Seth had said as much.

But my biggest hope—and the reason I really wanted to know what it contained—was that he’d left a clue to where he’d stored the Madeira. The kind of money Prescott had been talking about could be a substantial financial cushion, something to give us breathing room in the lean years. But would opening this envelope be like opening Pandora’s box?

Even if it was, I was still going to do it.

I waited until I got back to the Jeep to unwind the thread around the clasps so I could slide out the papers. A blast of arctic wind rocked the car until it shook. The sky had turned lead-colored and it felt cold and raw enough to snow, though there was none in the forecast. I started the engine, put on the heater, and pulled out the contents of the envelope.

I went through everything twice—first, quickly, and then, because I didn’t understand what I was looking at, more slowly. That second time it was clear Leland had left no clues about the whereabouts of the Madeira. Nothing. Zero. Rien. Nada. I pounded the steering wheel in frustration. Prescott had been wrong and I’d been counting on him being right. Damn.