I merged onto the highway, the old Ford vibrating as eighteen-wheelers roared past. I checked my mirrors constantly—old habits die hard.
No one was following me. Terrence was too busy searching for the safe key to notice I was gone.
I took the exit for Highland Park. The air changed here, smelling of fresh-cut grass and wealth. Fences grew higher. Gates became elaborate—wrought iron curls, brass plaques with old family names.
I pulled up to the massive iron gates of the Thorne estate. A security camera buzzed and turned toward me.
I rolled down the window. “Booker King.”
The gate clicked and swung open silently.
I drove up the winding paved driveway lined with oak trees older than the interstate. My rusted truck looked like a stain against the pristine landscaping. A silver Rolls-Royce sat in front of the main entrance, gleaming under the Texas sun.
I parked beside it. The contrast would have made a lesser man feel small. It just made me feel focused.
The front door opened before I could knock.
Alistair Thorne sat in a motorized wheelchair. Eighty years old, his body withered by time and illness, but his eyes remained sharp as broken glass. He wore a velvet smoking jacket and silk scarf.
He didn’t look at me like hired help or charity. He looked at me like a man going into battle who was glad to see another soldier.
“Booker,” he said, voice raspy but firm.
“Mr. Thorne.” I nodded.
He extended a hand—thin and trembling, but his grip was surprisingly strong. We didn’t shake like businessmen. We clasped hands like brothers.
“I am sorry about Esther,” he said. “She was the finest woman I ever knew. Better than me. Better than all of us.”
“Thank you, sir.” My throat felt tight.
“Come inside. We don’t have much time. Your son will figure out you’re gone soon.”
I followed him into the foyer. Marble floors, ceilings soaring twenty feet high. It was a palace, but it felt cold and empty.
Esther had been the warmth in this house. Without her, it was just a museum.
We passed the grand staircase, the formal dining room with a table big enough for a football team, and down a hallway lined with portraits of dead ancestors who looked down at me with disapproval.
I stared right back at them. I had buried more men than they ever met.
Thorne led me to his private study at the back of the house—a room I had never entered. Leather-bound books lined the walls. The air smelled of cedar and brandy. Heavy velvet curtains blocked the afternoon sun, casting everything in shadow.
But we weren’t alone.
Standing by the fireplace was a man I didn’t recognize. Tall, wearing a worn trench coat. A thin scar ran down his cheek. His eyes looked like they’d seen the bottom of bottles and humanity.
“Booker, this is Mr. Vance,” Thorne said. “He’s a private investigator. Esther hired him two months ago.”
My heart skipped a beat. Esther had hired a private investigator. Why?
Vance nodded at me without smiling. He looked at me with a mixture of pity and respect.
“Please sit down,” Thorne said, gesturing to a heavy leather chair in front of his massive oak desk.
I sat. The leather creaked. I felt like I was in an electric chair waiting for the switch.
Thorne wheeled himself behind the desk and placed his hands on a small stack of items on the green blotter.
A small black leather journal sat there. I recognized it immediately—Esther’s prayer journal. She carried it everywhere.
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