The early morning air was crisp as Clara stepped out of the Cornerstone Café, her notebook tucked securely under her arm. Hensley fell into step beside her, his expression unreadable but his eyes sharp. The small town of Ashbourne had begun to stir, shopkeepers flipping signs to “Open” and the faint hum of traffic picking up. Yet, for Clara, the world felt suspended, the weight of the Blackthorn mystery pressing down on her.

“Where do you want to start?” Hensley asked, his voice breaking the silence.

Clara glanced at her notes. “Wexler. If he was involved in something as dangerous as you’ve implied, there must be a trail—even if it’s a cold one. Someone in town might remember something.”

Hensley nodded thoughtfully. “Wexler’s name came up in a few investigations before he disappeared, but nothing ever stuck. If you’re looking for leads, you might try the old records at the courthouse. They’d have documentation of any business dealings between him and Blackthorn.”

THE COURTHOUSE

The courthouse was a stately, aging building with weathered stone walls and tall windows that caught the morning light. Inside, the air smelled faintly of old paper and floor polish. Clara approached the records clerk, a middle-aged woman with glasses perched precariously on her nose.

“I’m looking for any contracts or dealings involving Martin Wexler and the Blackthorn Estate,” Clara explained, flashing a polite smile. “From about ten years ago.”

The clerk gave her a wary look but nodded. “Those records would be in the archives. Follow me.”

You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author.

The archives were a maze of shelves stacked with dusty ledgers and yellowing documents. Clara set to work, her fingers brushing over brittle pages as she searched for Wexler’s name. Hours passed before she struck gold: a series of contracts between Martin Wexler and Jonathan Blackthorn, detailing the installation of “specialized security systems” at the estate. The phrasing was deliberately vague, but one clause caught her eye:

“All materials and designs are to remain confidential, property of Wexler Industries. Breach of confidentiality will result in immediate legal action.”

Clara jotted down the key details, her mind racing. What was Blackthorn trying so hard to protect? And why would he involve someone like Wexler?

Further digging revealed financial records tied to the estate. Large sums of money had been transferred to Wexler in the months leading up to the fire. Another document mentioned permits for underground construction—a detail that hadn’t been mentioned in any of the initial reports about the estate.

“Underground construction?” Clara murmured to herself, making a note. What had Blackthorn been building? And why was it kept off the books?

A NEW LEAD

Back at her cottage, Clara spread the contents of her bag across the table: copies of the contracts, the financial records, and her notes. The pieces were beginning to fit together, but questions still loomed.

Her phone buzzed, and she picked it up to see a message from an unknown number:

“Stop digging, Dorne. You don’t know what you’re getting into.”

Clara’s blood ran cold. She glanced at Hensley, who had taken a seat by the window, his expression as tense as hers felt.

“Looks like we have been under surveillance,” she said, holding up the phone.

Hensley’s jaw tightened. “Then we’d better move fast.”

Clara nodded, her resolve hardening. The Blackthorn secrets were close to the surface, and she wouldn’t stop until she unearthed every last one.