“You’re mostly there.” Another voice rang through the dark. “Straight ahead and curve to the right, follow the light. You’ll see it.”

The light. Of course, in the darkest moments one must always look for the light. Jittery and chilled, I moved that way and indeed found the orange-yellow glow ahead. The sight of it washed over me like the warmth it surely spilled, and I moved swiftly, eagerly, full of expectant victory down the long hall that still stood between me and that light. But voices echoed behind.

Had I closed the cellar door?

I curled against the wall and couldn’t escape the smell—that noxious aroma that, although I’d never been in one, clearly belonged to a morgue. Breathing through my mouth, I walked into the room that in itself felt like a tomb—insulated from the activity of Hurstwell by thick walls. I could no longer hear the echoing noises, or the voices. Just . . . nothing. White-sheet-covered surfaces were spaced about the room, with metal drawers and an opening to a chute on one end. What on earth went down that chute?

With a final quiver, I lifted a folded sheet from the pile and lay down on one of the empty tables, covering myself fully and settling in for a long wait. How eerie it felt beneath that shroud, my nose tenting the material over me. I tried not to let it puff upward with my breath. My nerves thrummed in my neck, vibrating through my body as I willed myself to relax. Wait, and stay quiet. Perfectly still.

But then I heard Richard’s sure, steady footsteps coming directly toward the morgue, and I nearly sobbed with relief. This leg of my journey was coming to a close, and now the longer, more difficult part began—proving my sanity, clearing my name. Rescuing the Hurstwell women I’d promised myself I wouldn’t leave behind.

But first, a gushing display of gratitude to Richard. Perhaps even a peck upon his cheek.

He entered and soon the sheet was lowered from my face like a cage door opening, and I drew in a cool, grateful breath, my mouth full of words—but it was Dr. Thornhill looking down at me.

The sight was a sickening punch to my stomach. Dread and anger poured through my veins. Lew, that wretch. Thornhill had obviously known exactly where to find me, with those certain footsteps, which meant that little rotter had told him.

No, it was my fault. My fault for trusting a stranger. A small boy who would do anything to look out for his sister and himself.

He shook his head with a long sigh. “You had me believing in you, Miss Fletcher. Believing you would only be here a short time, that you might come round . . .”