He realized he hadn’t been to the cemetery since the day Hawley had found him there to say that a Blasphemer named Street had been sent to meet his maker in a Piccadilly back alley. Grant promised to head up there on Sunday and visit Allison one last time before finishing up his time at the Yard. Maybe talking through the case by her grave might give him some perspective he hadn’t yet considered.

Grant had plenty to tell her since he’d last sat on that stone bench.

Perhaps he could even convince Rachel to go with him.

By the end of Christmas evening, Grant was wondering if he could even accomplish that.

Because when midnight rolled around and Grant sent everyone home (after apologizing for ruining their Christmas), he felt more useless than at any time since the whole mess started. There still wasn’t a trace of Prior Silver to be found.

And now Monte Ferguson had vanished off the face of the earth as well.

When the knock came on the front door, Grant turned to squint at his alarm clock and saw it was almost nine o’clock in the morning.

He figured that Rachel would answer it, but then remembered she had spent the night with Frankel at the hotel in Covent Garden.

As he hauled himself out of bed, he thought while he never would have imagined Rachel falling for a member of his profession, he had to admit that John Frankel was living up to being the “good man” his daughter claimed him to be.

At least so far. He had seen way too many relationships go awry in his years at the Yard, so he still thought it best for her to be cautious. Cautious, but hopeful.

The second knock at the door was more pronounced.

“Coming,” Grant called out as he came down the corridor.

He opened it to find a delivery man for an overnight package service standing with a clipboard in hand, shivering in the morning cold.

“Sorry,” Grant told him. “Overslept.”

“Have a pretty good Christmas, did you?” asked the delivery man with a knowing twinkle in his eye.

“Not particularly,” answered Grant.

The delivery man frowned, obviously not expecting such a forthcoming response. The man nodded over his shoulder at the delivery van.

“It’s a rather large package. Anywhere specific you want me to put it?”

Grant saw a medium sized crate on a dolly beside the van.

“I guess the living room, if you don’t mind,” Grant directed.

A few moments later, the man had deposited the crate and departed with a few pound notes that Grant dug out of his wallet.

It was only when he took a better look at the shipping label that the sleepy-eyed Grant snapped fully awake. It wasn’t his printed name and address that caught his eye. It was the return label in the upper left corner of the crate.