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Mr. Barclay was in trouble.

Frederick could feel it in the pit of his stomach.

Every piece of the puzzle Grace had revealed combined with the clues they’d already uncovered pointed to a single conclusion: Someone was after Grace’s inheritance.

And while the method was convoluted, each step—starting with Tony’s murder—seemed deliberately aimed at that very goal.

Grace looked down at Mrs. Lindsay. “We can’t leave her here alone.”

“No.” The vision of Mrs. James holding the pillow over Mrs. Lindsay’s bed gave off unsettling hints of what may still be in Mrs. Lindsay’s future. He held his wife’s gaze, not for the first time relinquishing the power to protect her when the logical choice required them to part.

“Could we ask Miss Cox?”

Miss Cox? The poor woman had enough difficulty managing an infant, what would she do with a—He stopped. Hadn’t she experience with the wounded and dying? “Excellent notion. Can we trust Zahra with Thomas?”

“I’m certain we can, especially with Lillias in the house.” Grace moved toward him. “One of us should stay with Mrs. Lindsay, and the other can fetch Miss Cox, and then could we go to the Clarion?”

“Or first find Detective Johnson?”

His instinct screamed at him to prioritize warning Mr. Barclay. They could apologize to Johnson later.

“Perhaps we’ll see Detective Johnson on the way to the hotel.” Grace offered, searching his face. “But I think our first stop should be the Clarion.”

“I hate leaving you here alone.” He skimmed over her body. How would she defend herself? “Do you have your parasol?”

Realization dawned in those eyes. “Oh no, it’s in our room.” She nodded, her smile reassuring. “But I do have a knife hidden in my—”

“Very well.” He cut off her sentence just in case someone neared, his grin tempting release. He didn’t need anyone envisioning where his darling wife hid her assortment of various weaponry except himself. “Stay with Mrs. Lindsay. I’ll bring Miss Cox back and discover Mrs. James’ whereabouts.”

“All right.”

He dipped his head to give her a quick kiss. “Stay alert.”

She nodded, and with one last lingering glance, he made his way through the kitchen and into the narrow passage leading to the mail rooms. He met no one until he reached the main stairs, where Lillias was descending.

Had she been so finely dressed when he’d seen her earlier? And why was she wearing a hat?

He didn’t have time to contemplate his sister-in-law’s fashion choices.

Her eyes widened the instant she saw him. A flicker of concern passed through her features, as though she was bracing herself for some new revelation. Considering the circumstances, it was no wonder.

“Have you seen Mrs. James?” He tried to keep his voice neutral, but patience was running thin.

Lillias sighed, her entire body sagging under an invisible weight. “Mrs. James? Oh, yes. She came by just a moment ago, asking if I needed anything.”

“And where did she go?”

Lillias studied his face. “I sent her to the grocery because she desperately needed some fresh air. She was positively quaking from what had happened to Mrs. Lindsay, so I told her to go.”

Before he could speak again, the front door opened, and in walked the doctor.

“Perfect,” Frederick muttered under his breath, almost surprised at the relief that washed over him. It was fleeting, though. Lillias looked at him, brow furrowed, clearly confused by his reaction.

“Could you see the doctor to Mrs. Lindsay’s room?” he asked, already turning away. “And send Grace upstairs? We need to leave for an important appointment without hesitation.”

He didn’t wait for Lillias’ response, taking the stairs two at a time.

Reaching Miss Cox and Zahra’s room, he found Thomas sleeping soundly in his crib.

Frederick quickly explained the situation, omitting the worst details about Mr. Barclay’s safety but stressing the need for the women to remain in the room until they returned.

“It’s an unfortunate accident involving Mrs. Lindsay,” he said, though the words tasted strange on his tongue.

Zahra watched him with the same intensity as always.

Miss Cox kept her usual scared expression.

He’d just left the bedroom when he met Grace in the hall.

“I retrieved my parasol, just in case.” She smiled in her reassuring way, but the knowledge of her particular need for a parasol as her weapon of choice always came with a mixed feeling of reassurance and concern. “Do we search for Detective Johnson?”

Frederick took her by the arm and moved toward the stairs. “I’m afraid we don’t have the luxury of time. We need to get to Mr. Barclay as soon as possible.”

She nodded, increasing her pace down the stairs just as the front door opened again to reveal the detective and Officer Todd.

Frederick leveled the detective a look, his body tensing in preparation at Frederick’s approach. “We need to get to Barclay. There’s not time to spare.”

Johnson’s brow quirked slightly, but he didn’t say anything. He merely held the door open for them to pass.

“I’ll explain on the way,” Frederick tossed over his shoulder, his pace already quickening.

“And pray, Detective Johnson.” Grace added. “Pray that we’re not too late.”

He couldn’t breathe.

Something covered his face—something coarse and cold. Was it a cloth? A bandage? He had a vague memory of waking up the same way before, but last time, when he’d reached for his face, the pain in his shoulder and a sudden weakness had pulled him back into the darkness of unconsciousness.

A sudden panic swelled into his throat, squeezing at his consciousness. No, he couldn’t go back into the dark again. He had to stay awake. He drew in a shallow breath, but it was enough to prove he could draw in another. Stay calm. Think.

After another breath, his mind cleared a little more, awakening awareness to other senses.

The bone-deep cold seeping into his marrow.

The strange scent combination of vinegar and smoke?

And something else? An undercurrent of a sickening sort of aroma, but he couldn’t place it.

He shivered, the quake of a movement inciting an ache in his chest. His fingers prickled awake.

In the back of his mind, he seemed to know he’d been cold for a while. Asleep for a while too. But why? Where was he?

His eyelids fluttered open to darkness, a vacant kind, like being in a tunnel.

Fatigue wooed him back into oblivion, but he forced his eyes to stay open, pushing beyond the gnawing ache somewhere on the right side of his chest. As his eyes adjusted to the blackness, a faint rim of light flickered at the top left corner of his view as if through some sort of net.

He settled his attention on the light and reached up for it, only to find something covering his arms and face. A sheet? Why was he covered in a sheet? Was he in his own bed at home?

With deliberate movements, he raised his left arm and pulled back the cloth from his face.

The scents took on more potency and the light above spread to reveal a colorless ceiling with a pipe screwed into place up above, like something in a factory or cellar.

With the cloth gone, he drew in a deeper breath, and although it pricked a pain in his chest, it also cleared his mind even more.

He wiggled his fingers, and it was almost as if he could feel the warmth of his own blood traveling through each vessel in his body, awakening various areas of soreness or cold with renewed vigor.

He rested his palm against his chest to garner enough strength to move again and took inventory of the rest of his surroundings. He was lying on something hard and unyielding, nothing like his own mattress, and the faint sound of men’s voices bled into his comprehension.

Another movement pulled at the ache in his chest, so he pushed back the sheet even more and reached a hand to touch his chest. Instead of brushing against the fabric of his shirt, his fingers slid along the familiar material of …

a bandage? A memory flashed into his mind.

He’d been in his home, barely awake, feeling the effects of a late night, and someone had rushed him.

Stabbed him.

His pulse took a faster pace in his ears, heating his chilled face, but he quieted the rising hysteria with another deep breath.

God, help me. He clung to the phrase, though he neither deserved it nor prayed it nearly enough, but lying in utter weakness surrounded by darkness pushed him to a cognizance he’d long forsaken.

Need. At the life level.

He’d felt need in finances. In love.

Longing for things he didn’t have and desperately wanted. Good things.

But this ache in his chest, this utter helplessness, reflected a need that struck much deeper.

Soul deep.

He drew in another calming breath and focused on the ceiling and the golden light flickering against it. This wasn’t a hospital.

He focused in on the sounds of the men’s voices, their conversation rough and casual-sounding, but he couldn’t quite make out their words. They were close on his left. Friend or foe, he didn’t know, but he couldn’t stay here.

Bracing his mind for the movement, he gathered his strength and pushed up on elbows, the ache in his chest increasing to a sting. He sat up with a groan, the world spinning for a moment before settling into focus.

The room was filled with shadows and long box-like shapes suspended on what looked like various tables.

He blinked and followed the glow away from the shadows toward the table in the center of the room where a single oil lamp stood.

Two men sat across from each other, their clothes careworn.

One was older, grizzled with a face that spoke of years of hard work, while the other was young, barely out of his teens by the look of him.

“Three aces,” the older one said with a chuckle, laying down his cards. “You’ve got the luck of the devil tonight, Sam.”

Sam, the younger man, opened his mouth to respond when his eyes focused forward. His jaw dropped and his face paled to an ashen hue.

Why was he looking at me with such fear? After all, I was the one in need of medical attention.

“J–J–Jim,” the young man stuttered, his voice a whisper of terror. He raised a shaking finger. “It’s—it’s a ghost.”

A ghost? Where? For some reason, the idea of a ghost might make sense in these circumstances and in this desolate and dark place.

“Now don’t you go being a spoilsport about losin’, boy.” The older man laughed. “You ain’t gonna—”

“He’s there,” Sam repeated, growing whiter, if that was at all possible.

The older man, Jim, turned and his annoyance transformed into shock.

What was wrong with these men? “ Could you help me?” His voice cracked, hoarse from disuse, his throat sore.

The younger man’s eyes widened in shock before his body gave way, collapsing in a faint beside the table.

After giving a look at Sam and taking a deep breath, the older man stood. “Well, they got you wrong, didn’t they?” He grabbed the lantern off the table, his yellow smile spreading in welcome amidst the eerie half-shadows.

“I—I don’t understand.”

“I’d ‘spect not.” Jim lumbered forward, stepping over his unconscious partner with a dismissive glance, his wrinkled grin half in shadow, half in lantern light. “And you’ll have to forgive Sam.”

Jim’s movements sent the lantern light swaying the shadows in the room to an almost dizzying amount. The boxes on all sides shook a little. What were they? “Forgive him? Why?”

Jim shrugged a shoulder, grin crooking. “It’s the first time he’s ever seen somebody rise from the dead.”

“What?” That didn’t make any sense. “What are you talking about?”

“I’d say you’ve either been sick or hurt badly to be in this place.” He lifted his lantern as he grew nearer. “What’s your name?”

“Name?” His head felt strange, the room a contrast of blurry and odd, but something began to dawn in the back of his mind. An inexplicable type of dread to add to the cold. He sifted through his foggy thoughts for the answer. “My name’s Anthony Dixon.”

“Well, Anthony Dixon, you’re not the first I’ve seen wake up in this place. Not often, thank God, but more than anyone should know.” He chuckled, the light growing brighter as he came to stand directly in front of Tony. “At least we found out before you went in the ground.”

“What?” Tony gave his head a shake, his shoulder aching so deeply, he looked down to assess the problem only to himself shirtless except for the bandages twisted across his chest. His gaze rose, vision clearing on the nearest box.

Wait a moment. That wasn’t a box.

And this place wasn’t a hospital. The chill in his bones intensified. “Where am I?”

Jim shrugged a shoulder, his expression partly consolatory and partly amused. “Prepare for a shock, mister.”

A shock. Tony was already trembling from the cold and the weakness that seemed to seep within every part of his body.

Maybe he didn’t want an answer, because he already knew, and voicing the truth would only make the nightmare real.

“You, Mr. Dixon, are sitting inside your own coffin in the morgue cellar.”

As the words hit slow comprehension, the weakness overtook Tony all over again and with one last look at the older man, all went dark.