And then I remembered Nanny Berry.
The thought hit me suddenly, sharp and clear, cutting through the fog in my mind like a blade. The conversation. The one we never finished. The way she had looked at me that night. Gentle. Worried. Too calm. And the diary—Mark's diary—how it had slipped from my hands, how everything had gone dark right after that tea.
My chest tightened.
Someone had entered my room.
Not just anyone. Someone who knew the house. Someone who knew Mark. Someone who knew where he kept his most private things.
When?
How?
And how—how did Mark's diary disappear and get replaced with that cheap, fake version? The handwriting that wasn't his. The words that didn't sound like him. The lies wrapped in something meant to confuse me.
My pulse quickened.
I stood up abruptly, the bed creaking behind me, and walked straight to Mark's drawer.
The private one.
The drawer no one was ever allowed to touch.
Mark had always been particular about it. Careful. Protective. Even playful when I teased him about it, but firm all the same. "That one's off-limits, darling," he used to say with a smile that never reached his eyes. "Some doors are better left closed."
I knelt in front of it now, my fingers hovering for a second before pulling it open.
Slowly.
Deliberately.
As if whatever I might find—or not find—would change everything.
The drawer slid out with a soft sound.
Neat.
Too neat.
Files stacked perfectly. A few old documents. A pen. Some receipts. Everything arranged with Mark's usual precision. I picked things up one by one, checking beneath them, inside folders, flipping through papers even though I already knew what I was looking for wasn't there.
No diary.
No hidden notes.
No loose pages.
Nothing out of place.
My heart sank.
I searched again.
More desperately this time. I emptied the drawer completely, laying everything out on the floor, my movements growing faster, rougher. My breath became shallow. My hands shook as I checked every corner, every seam, every envelope.
Still nothing.
I sat back on my heels, staring at the empty drawer like it had betrayed me.
Disappointment settled deep in my chest, heavy and suffocating.
Once again, I was one step behind.
Once again, someone had moved before I could.
I sat on the edge of the bed, exhaustion crashing into me all at once. My shoulders slumped. My hands fell limply into my lap. The room felt too quiet, too big, too aware of me.
This wasn't random.
This wasn't a mistake.
Someone had been watching.
Someone had known exactly what to take.
And worse—someone wanted to mislead me.
My jaw tightened.
I replayed everything in my mind. The tea. The dizziness. The way my body had gone weak so fast. The way Nanny Berry's voice had sounded distant but steady, like she wasn't surprised by what was happening.
You need rest, darling.
Rest.
Or silence?
My stomach twisted painfully.
I didn't want to believe it. God, I didn't. Nanny Berry had raised Mark. She had loved him. Protected him. She had been kind to me when no one else in that house was. But kindness didn't erase secrets. Love didn't mean innocence.
And Mark—Mark wouldn't hide something this important without a reason.
I pressed my fingers into the mattress, grounding myself.
This house was full of ghosts.
And lies.
I exhaled slowly and made a decision.
If the answers weren't in this house… then I would go outside it.
I reached for my phone.
My fingers hesitated just for a second before dialing.
The FBI.
The same people who had called me that night. The same people who had used the word body instead of husband. The same people who had closed the case too quickly, too cleanly, too conveniently.
The phone rang.
Once.
Twice.
Each ring made my heart beat harder.
Finally, someone picked up.
"Federal Bureau of Investigation."
I swallowed.
"This is Alexa Walton," I said, my voice steadier than I felt. "My husband, Mark Walton, passed away recently. I received a call from your department the night he died."
There was a pause.
A long one.
"Yes, Mrs. Walton," the agent replied. "How can we assist you?"
Assist.
The word almost made me laugh.
"I believe my husband's death wasn't an accident," I said carefully. "And I believe evidence has been tampered with since his passing."
Another pause.
He didn't interrupt me.
That told me everything.
"I recently discovered that a personal item belonging to my husband has gone missing," I continued. "Something he kept secured. Someone accessed it without my knowledge."
"Do you suspect someone specific?" he asked.
I glanced around the room instinctively, as if the walls themselves might be listening.
"Yes," I said. "But I don't know who yet."
Silence crackled through the line.
"Mrs. Walton," the agent said slowly, "this case was ruled accidental. Reopening it would require—"
"I am now the executor of Mark Walton's estate," I cut in. "I have full access to his businesses, financial records, and private security operations. If you need cooperation, you'll have it."
Another pause.
Shorter this time.
"May I ask what exactly went missing?" he asked.
I closed my eyes briefly.