The unpolished gray granite headstone of Prescott and Rose’s son Tommy was poignant in its stark simplicity. Underneath his name and dates of birth and death, was one word: BELOVED. My mother had told me his parents’ grief had known no bounds; it had nearly destroyed Prescott. Tommy had been young, handsome, carefree, the anointed heir, but also a reckless daredevil. Clayton had never been able to fill the void left by his tragic death. How soul-destroying could it be to realize that, whatever he did, Clay could never be as good, as smart, as popular, as beloved as his half-brother in the eyes of his stepfather?

Not only that, Prescott didn’t like Victoria, Clayton’s almost-fiancée, and he had most likely been about to sell the newspaper Clay had sacrificed his own career to run, once again demonstrating to his family and the world that Prescott himself still ran the show. For Clayton that final decision to publicly undermine him must have been humiliating. Was it possible he’d been so angry he confronted Prescott downstairs in the wine cellar on Saturday and…?

The wind buffeted me again and I moved from Tommy’s marker to Rose’s and Miranda’s headstones, which were also simple unpolished granite stones. On Rose’s, the newest and least worn, was written: I WOULD NOT WISH ANY COMPANION IN THE WORLD BUT YOU. And on Miranda’s was poetry: WE ARE SUCH STUFF AS DREAMS ARE MADE ON AND OUR LITTLE LIFE IS ROUNDED WITH A SLEEP.

I pulled out my phone and turned my back to the wind, looking up both epitaphs. Shakespeare. The Tempest.

Again. What was it about that play that Prescott Avery had chosen lines from it to eulogize his wife and daughter? It had also been important to my father, who had locked up copies of two diaries from survivors of the shipwrecked Sea Venture in a safe-deposit box—supposedly the play had been based on their stories.

I was done here; I’d found what I’d come for. Quick prayers for Rose, Miranda, and Tommy and then I headed back to the Jeep. A few flakes of snow swirled down from the flat, white sky, melting as they landed on the tops of headstones. The weather report hadn’t mentioned snow. I started the engine and my phone rang. A number flashed on the display with Clayton Avery above it. An electric current went through me as if I’d been caught taking something that wasn’t mine. Clay couldn’t possibly know I was parked in front of his mother’s and half-brother’s and sister’s graves at Union Cemetery.

Could he?

I answered the call, hoping I sounded perfectly normal.

“Lucie, Clay Avery. Hope I didn’t catch you in the middle of something.”

I let out a relieved breath. “No, not at all. I’m over in Leesburg finishing up an errand.”