Chapter 122 The Missing Link

The garden was uncharacteristically quiet. Early spring sun draped lazy gold over the marble bench where Genevieve stood stiffly, her long gloved fingers clenched around a battered manila envelope. The Hawthorne estate grounds, usually pristine with clipped roses and perfect hedges, felt haunted, by memory, by secrets, by her hesitation. Silas approached, his tall frame cutting through the dappled sunlight. His face, carved from sharp lines and stern restraint, gave away nothing. But his eyes, those storm-hued eyes, were locked on hers, expectant.