Sure, he probably brushed it off. Wiped his hands. And I can’t see the gold caught in his knuckles, or trapped beneath his fingernails, maybe even lingering on his overcoat. But I can sense it. I can always sense it.

“Leah?”

Grief washes over me in waves until I’m dizzy with it. Jeff was right: Daddy rushed out of the house to greet someone. Someone he was glad to see.

And my uncle killed him. His very own brother.

“It’s okay to cry, baby girl,” he says.

I blink against tears and clench my fists, imagining what it would be like to feel his nose bust under my knuckles. But my rage dribbles away, and my legs twitch as if to flee. Is he going to kill me too? Who would help me? Not Mrs. Smith, who even now gazes up at my uncle like he’s the second coming of George Washington. She would never believe me. No one would.

“You have room in the barn for my horse?” he asks, and for the first time, I notice the tall black gelding hobbled behind him in the woods. It’s snowing again, and the horse’s back is powdered with white. “Poor boy could use a bit of pampering.”

There’s not a hint of regret or shame in his face. No fear of discovery in his voice. And maybe that’s what will keep me safe, for now. I can’t let on that I know what he did.

I force my voice into perfect blandness. “I have two empty stalls. Put him in the one by the door, or Peony will give him a nip.”

“We’ll talk more in a bit,” he says. “I’ll come back later to pay my respects.” He tips his hat to Mrs. Smith, who stands enthralled beside me, and he heads back toward his gelding.

“I’m not moving to Milledgeville!” I call out after him.

He looks over his shoulder. He’s still wearing that slight smile. A whole world I don’t understand is in that smile. “Of course not,” he says.

Why did you do it? I want to scream at his back.

“A very fine man, your uncle,” Mrs. Smith says.

“I hardly know him,” I murmur, still staring after him.

“Well, you’re lucky to have him.”

I say nothing. Mrs. Smith has known me my whole life. But she’s delighted to see me given over to a perfect stranger, for no other reason than I’m a young girl and he’s a fine gentleman relative.

There’s no proof Hiram murdered my parents—not unless I lay my secret bare, the one I swore to Mama and Daddy I’d never reveal. There’s nothing I can do.

Well, maybe there is one thing.

I’ll wait for you in Independence.