Page 27 of Beloved Sacrifice

“It’s about what’s in them,” she said.

Weston shook his head. “No. It’s about where all of it came from.”

“It’s all stolen. I know. They would sell off pieces when they needed cash. All the purists did it—that’s why they each wanted the map.” Rose had doctored the maps, editing out information—a small rebellion. “It was their own private bank, treasure chest.”

“That art wasn’t just stolen. Come on, I’ll show you something.”

Rose followed him out of the cottage’s front door. There were large pots on either side of the door planted with lavender, each bush bursting with fat purple blooms. She brushed one with her fingertips, lifting her hand to catch the sweet scent.

Weston guided her around to the back of the cottage, where there was a small addition stuck onto the building, no more than four feet by four feet. A heavy silver padlock held the door closed.

Weston tipped up the padlock and pressed his thumb against a small black square on the underside. Rose raised her eyebrows but didn’t comment.

“This was originally the boiler house, but I’m using it for something else.” He opened the door and reached into the gloom inside, flicking on a light.

Rose was curious despite herself. She braced one hand on the doorframe, then leaned in, looking at the walls. “A serial killer room. Lovely.”

Cork mats had been affixed to the walls, and pinned to those were hundreds of pieces of paper. The wall to her left had everything neatly organized, with pictures and printed pieces of paper in neat columns and rows. The wall opposite the door was a bit messier. This one looked like an organizational chart, with pictures and names.

She spotted a photo of herself—a formal portrait she’d had taken for work. She was toward the bottom of the tree—where the pawn should be.

The right wall was a mess of small notes. Toward the ceiling was a piece of butcher paper, affixed lengthwise. A black line was drawn along its length with shorter lines coming off of it—a timeline.

“After you,” he said.

Rose leaned out. “I think not.”

Weston frowned. “You don’t want to know?”

“I don’t want to be locked in there.”

He blinked, as if that had never occurred to him. “I wasn’t…” He stepped in.

She looked at the door. “I could close this and lock you in.”

“You could.” He didn’t move.

“You trust me.”

“I do.”

“You shouldn’t. You don’t even know me anymore.”

His posture softened. “Maybe not, but I know who you were, and I know the core of you hasn’t changed.”

“Yes, it has.”

They stayed that way, staring at one another. She could run. She could go…where?

She had nowhere and no one.

Rose sighed and followed Weston in. “What is all this?”

“This is everything I know.”

She pointed at the wall with the pictures. “The purists?”

Her picture, along with Caden’s, which she tried to avoid looking at, were there. The Andersons, including Elroy, and Jessica Breton, and a dozen more. Her mother’s picture was there with a question mark, as were the Hancocks’.

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