THE VEIL OF SECRETS

The word ledger hung in the air like a drop of poison in a glass of water.

Drake’s expression instantly turned to stone. He looked at his security guards. "Secure the perimeter. No one gets near this estate. Get a team to the Boston apartment immediately. Do not let the police in until my men have cleared it."

He turned to Cora. "Your grandmother kept a ledger?"

"She was a seamstress," Cora said, her mind racing. "She kept a book of clients, measurements, and payments. It was just a black book."

"The Ashfords do not hire thugs to break down doors for dress measurements," Drake said grimly. "We need to get there."

Within twenty minutes, Drake and Cora—now dressed in a simple sweater and jeans she had borrowed from one of the estate’s staff—were standing in the ruins of the cramped Boston apartment where Cora had grown up.

Furniture was overturned. Fabric bolts were slashed. The antique mirrors were shattered. Jonah stood nervously in the hallway with Drake’s men.

Cora walked into her grandmother’s sewing room. It was completely decimated. Tears pricked her eyes, not for the loss of property, but for the violation of her grandmother’s sacred space.

"They didn't find it," Cora said quietly.

Drake stepped carefully over a broken chair. "How do you know?"

"Because they tore up the floorboards," Cora pointed to the splintered wood. "But Eleanor Bennett didn't hide her most precious things in the floor. She hid them in plain sight."

Cora walked over to a massive, heavy cast-iron sewing machine table that had been bolted to the wall for fifty years. She reached underneath, feeling along the greasy, iron gears. Her fingers found a small, hidden latch. She pressed it.

A heavy iron panel dropped open with a clack. Inside was a leather-bound book wrapped in oilcloth.

Cora pulled it out and unwrapped it. She opened the pages.

"These aren't measurements," Drake said, looking over her shoulder.

"No," Cora breathed. "They're coordinates. Dates. Cargo weights."

She flipped the pages. Her grandmother hadn't just been making dresses. She had been encoding shipping manifests into the lace patterns she sold.

"Look at the dates," Drake pointed to a column. "1998. 1999. These are the years the Ashford Shipping company had a monopoly on the Boston harbor. But they were losing money. Suddenly, in 2001, their profits skyrocketed."

Cora turned to the final page in the book. There was a single entry, written in her grandmother’s elegant cursive, dated October 14, 2001—the exact date Drake’s mother had died.

Isabella found out. The cargo wasn't silk; it was weapons. Ashford ordered the ship scuttled with Isabella on board to hide the evidence. I have sewn the proof into the silver casing. May God forgive me for not speaking sooner.

Cora gasped, looking at Drake. The man looked like he had been struck by lightning.

"They murdered her," Drake whispered, his voice vibrating with a lethal, terrifying rage.