A tan-and-gold Loudoun County Sheriff’s Office cruiser sat in the driveway in front of the gates, blocking my way. I stopped and the deputy got out of his car and came over. I rolled down the window, gave him my name when he asked, and told him I was expected. He went back to his car and a moment later, backed out of the way so I could pass by.

The Averys’ elderly housekeeper opened the door when I rang the bell. She gave me the ghost of a smile and invited me in. The sadness in her eyes spoke volumes: that Prescott’s death was as hard for her as if she’d lost a member of her own family, not just her employer.

“Mr. Clayton is expecting you,” she said, taking my coat. “He’s in the library.”

“I know where it is,” I said. “Thank you.”

Prescott had always been Mr. Avery to the staff at Hawthorne. Even after he was gone, Clayton was still Mr. Clayton. Somehow I reckoned he’d change that pretty soon.

The big house was eerily silent, as though still getting used to the loss of its owner. End-of-day light through the windows of the rooms on each side of the hallway cast long pale streaks that reminded me of icicles on the oak floors and Persian carpets. The library was at the back of the Castle, its windows looking out on the terraced gardens and the fairy tale–like glass orangerie where the family had hosted so many parties and celebrations over the years.

Clayton stood in front of a fireplace, his profile limned by the flickering light of a cheerful blaze, a drink glass in one hand and the other resting against the mantel like he needed it to prop him up. He seemed unaware that I was standing in the doorway, so I knocked on the doorjamb and he started before turning around.

“Lucie.” He looked like hell. Not grief-stricken, but anguished. Exhausted. “Thanks for coming by. Can I get you a drink? I was just about to refresh mine. What would you like? We’ve got everything, including wine, if you prefer.”

“No drink, but I’ll take a glass of water, thanks.”

The antique wooden bar cart was across the room and the only surface without a vase of flowers sitting on it because it was already crowded with crystal decanters and bottles of alcohol.

Clay held up his glass, stared at it, and shrugged. “Okay, if you’re sure. Come in. Have a seat.” He gestured to a burnt-orange chesterfield sofa on one side of the fireplace. “Sparkling or still?”

“Sparkling, please. The flowers are lovely, Clay,” I said. “So many tributes. Have you been able to make any arrangements?”

I didn’t want to say yet.