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I continue through the castle, room by room, until only one place is left to check.

Samson’s bedroom.

The bed is unmade. The sheets are tangled. One pillow on the floor. A dark shirt thrown over the end of the bed.

I stand in the doorway longer than I should.

Then I begin to search.

Every drawer.

Every cabinet.

The nightstands.

The wardrobe.

The fireplace.

Behind frames.

Beneath rugs.

I check the bathroom, the adjoining dressing room, the hidden compartment where Samson keeps an extra pistol.

It’s gone.

My frustration builds until I have to stop myself from tearing the place apart simply because the room doesn’t give me any clues.

“Where are you?” I say aloud.

I turn back to the bed. Something bothers me about it.

Not the sheets.

Not the pillow.

The frame.

Samson had it custom built. It’s heavy and ornate with custom carvings.

I crouch beside it. At first, I see nothing.

Then I run my hand along the inner edge of the frame.

My fingers catch on paper.

It’s a yellow sticky note, pressed to the inside wood where it would be invisible unless someone knew to look.

Samson knows me. Samson knows I look at everything closely. I have to. It’s what I do. I fix things. I shield the family. One small stone unturned could mean everything we’ve worked for goes up in smoke.

I peel the sticky note from the wood and read.

Nate,

Tell Dad I’m sorry.

—S