It’s late. I’m standing in the moonlight beside the swift running river, side by side with the family’s mechanic and chauffeur when a sudden icy gust of wind pulls a little shiver from me.

“You’re cold,” Sam observes.

“Well,” I say, and I sniff a little from my slightly running nose, “I have been outside for a while.”

“I’ll walk you back to the house.”

I’m a little surprised when he holds out his arm like a proper gentleman escort, but I accept it gratefully. It is late and I’m suddenly rather tired, and without the aid of the flashlight, it would be a long, treacherous walk back on my own.

Being tired, however, does not stop my overactive mind from continuing to mull over the problem of Harrison Squire’s murder.

“Why did the killer move the body?” I muse as Sam guides me through the dark forest. “What purpose could moving it have possibly served?”

“I suppose the simple answer is they didn’t want him found.”

“But I’d already found him. Moving the body after the fact with so many people around, sure to be combing the area any minute, they risked being spotted by any one of them. Simply running away would have made far more sense…”

“I guess they felt it was worth the risk.”

“And who could have done it?” my mind is already jumping to the next question. “To shatter his skull like that, then carry him off. Only a man could be so strong.”

“I guess that eliminates all female suspects.”

“Unless,” I muse, mind racing, “unless it was a man and woman working together…”

“Eliminating no one. You’re getting nowhere, Miss Porter.”

“Perhaps,” I murmur. “Perhaps not…”

Later when we’re standing outside the house, Sam faces me with the slightest smirk.

“You know, I don’t think I’ll ever get over it. The sight of you out there in the dark, digging through the dirt with your bare hands to find a dead body.”

“Well, I’m not afraid of dead bodies. At least, not in theory.”

“Oh?”

“When I was a child I wanted to be an Egyptologist. You know, study mummies, that sort of thing.”

“That’s a little different, isn’t it?”

“Is it? I wonder… At any rate, it’s not as though a corpse can hurt me.”

“A corpse, no. But I shouldn’t need to remind you there’s still a killer out there, Miss Porter.”

“Well, that’s what I have you for, isn’t it?”

“You’re very trusting,” he cocks his head just a little. “What if the killer turns out to be me?”

I consider his suggestion seriously. And dismiss it.

“No. You’re not a killer. You’re not the type.”

This amuses him and he laughs lowly, a warm sound.

“At least,” I amend my statement, considering him a little longer. “You’re not the type that would kill… without a very good reason.”

He sobers at this. Gives me a hard look with those keen, color shifting eyes of his. Somehow, it makes me a little nervous.

“Listen to me,” I laugh awkwardly. “Assigning your type. I’m as bad as Letty River.”

“Who?”

“Why she’s…” an idea comes to me suddenly, “someone I need to see tomorrow. I should call on her first thing in the morning. Oh, but tomorrow’s Sunday, she’ll be in church. Afternoon, then. Have the car ready.”

“As you like.”

Already distracted, deep in thought, I turn to mount the steps, forgetting Sam in the lawn until I hear him call after me.

“Goodnight, Miss Porter.”

For some reason, those words make my heart jump up and down a little wildly in my chest. My fingers unconsciously reach up to grip the edges of my sleeves as I glance back at him shyly.

“Goodnight, Sam.”

Upstairs in my room I place the bullet on my dresser beside my collection of arrowheads, and I take off my foggy glasses. I strip out of my clothes and change into a warm nightgown before diving under the covers.

It’s late and I’m tired. I’ve had an unbelievingly long and stressful day, and really all I want to do now is sleep. But my mind won’t let me.

Sam said I should leave this matter to the police, but I already know the police won’t investigate, not after what happened today. No, if I’m going to find Harrison’s body and Harrison’s killer, I’ll have to do it myself.

The first thing I need to establish is a motive. Who would want to kill Harrison? He was the nicest man, at least to me. He was… well.

Who was he?

Harrison was someone who came around twice a year, conducted some business with Father, stayed over for a few days and left. No explanation. But he did it like clockwork, for as long as I can remember.

He wasn’t an investor. Father schmoozes his investors, like he did Lady Charlotte today, rolling out the red carpet for them. But he never did that for Harrison.

Father was always funny around Harrison. In one way, I thought he looked forward to his visits. But I thought he resented them too. Like he couldn’t wait for them to be over.

Could that be because Father knew Harrison was the type of man to bring sniper rifles to garden parties?

It’s strange. Though I cared for him deeply, the more I think of it, the more I realize I never knew a thing about Harrison Squire. So where do I begin, then, establishing a motive for his murder? And how will I find the killer? There were at least two hundred guests at Louise and William’s party today. That’s a lot of suspects…

Letty will know, I decide, flipping my pillow to the cold side and flailing in my bed a little until I find a more comfortable position. I’ll go and see her tomorrow, and ask her opinion on the matter.

But first, I think, noting just the faintest light of dawn coming through the seam in my curtains, I’ll get some sleep…

“Good afternoon, my dear! What? No, you’re not interrupting, no. My husband was interrupting earlier when he stopped my writing to ask me what year Sargon the Great became ruler of the Assyrian empire. Apparently a tidbit he needs for his sermon next week. Really, that man. Just preached this morning and already he’s writing notes for the next oration. Doesn’t know how to take a break, my darling Reverend. Of course, neither do I. Did I tell you about the book I was working on, Dear? About how dinosaurs survived Noah’s flood and went on to live alongside man as creatures the ancients knew as dragons? It also has chapters about the Nephilim and other Cryptids, and all about the Illuminati’s dastardly cover-up of their existence. I’m sure I told you all about it…”

“No, I’m sure you did not. But let me know when it’s coming out because I’m definitely buying a copy.”

It’s late afternoon and I sit in Letitia River’s drawing room with a cup of tea. She’s as chatty as usual, dressed casually in slacks and a men’s maroon pullover sweater.

Somehow managing to distract her from her otherwise endless monologues, I tell her a little of what happened yesterday after we parted.

“I was wondering, Letty, after I ran for help, did you go into the woods? Did you see Harrison’s body?”

“I did go into the woods, of course. Too curious not to. I didn’t see a body, though I did see a shape moving in the trees. The sight terrified me, I won’t lie, and I ran before I could get a look at them. A shame. Most likely that was our killer.”

“It’s alright. Better that you stayed safe. But that shape you spotted, did you notice whether it was a man or a woman?”

She considers this, shakes her head. “I really couldn’t say for sure. Their figure was too obscured by the trees.”

Disappointed but not daunted, I tell her a little of my recent thoughts about Harrison, how after he died I realized I hardly knew a thing about his personal life. Only that he was well traveled, and he lived in the capitol, and perhaps that he was in the army at some point.

“So it seems to me,” Letty observes, sipping her tea, “the real mystery isn’t who killed Harrison Squire— it’s who was Harrison Squire? And whom did he come to that party to kill?”