“I’m afraid Mr. Nichols is away from the residence at the moment. He is expected to return later this afternoon.”

“And will I see him then?”

“I am not privy to Mr. Nichols’s appointment schedule. I only know when he is expected back.”

“I assume I have no choice but to remain here.” She prayed that she was wrong, that she wasn’t locked in a gilded cage.

The butler looked aghast. “No guest is forced to do anything here, Ms. Caldwell. You are free to leave if you wish.”

“I do wish.” She started for the door.

The butler motioned for her to wait. “Very well, but would you like some help gathering your belongings?”

“I don’t have any.”

Abby exited the room, moving slowly and favoring her left foot. The butler walked past her in a long hallway filled with paintings. He led Abby down a winding staircase into a large marble-floored foyer. She knew she was gaping at the opulence, but she couldn’t believe that the house belonged to just one man. The foyer alone could contain half the huts in her village. The butler opened one of two enormous white doors that led out the front. Abby followed him to the door, exchanged glances with him, and stepped through.

“Would you like me to secure transportation for you, Ms. Caldwell?”

“How far is it to the next car depot?”

“Six miles.”

“No. I’ll walk.” She tried not to think about her throbbing ankle.

“As you wish.”

“When I go through the gate, which direction do I turn?”

“To the left. That road will lead you to the town of Northeast Harbor.” He glanced at her ankle. “It would be much faster if you allowed us to drive you.”

She waved him off. “I’m fine.”

Abby walked slowly along a stone path that crossed the lawn. She reached the driveway and proceeded to the estate’s entrance. She glanced back, saw no one behind her, and headed left. She had to place as much distance between herself and Bryson Nichols as possible, even if it took hours. He had committed her grandfather to a mental institution, and now he was after …

She stopped. She looked down the road in front of her, then back toward the estate. Bryson Nichols had committed her grandfather to a mental institution. If that was true, Nichols controlled whoever ran the institution. Or had influence over them, at least. The only sure way of getting her grandfather out was through Nichols. The man was dangerous, undoubtedly, but she had to chance talking to him. It could go very badly—or result in the breakthrough she needed to help her grandfather.

She stood for several moments, debating the matter. Finally she turned around and limped determinedly back toward the estate.

Two thirty arrived—the time of my scheduled VR meeting with Ray. I appeared at the picnic table. Ray was already sitting on the other side.