Chapter 6: The Ghosts of Duluth
The road to the Duluth estate was slick with coastal fog and melting snow, but Rosalie didn’t keep her eyes on the frozen shoreline of Lake Superior. She sat in the passenger seat of Manuel’s sedan, watching the heavy iron gates of her childhood prison loom against the gray horizon.
For twelve years, Emmett had forbidden her from returning to the property where her mother had died. He had claimed the memories would trigger another "episode." In reality, he had turned the sprawling stone mansion into a fortified archive for his illegal timber leases and forged mining deeds.
"You don't have to go inside," Manuel said softly, bringing the car to a halt before the courtyard. "Arthur’s forensic team can secure the study."
"No," Rosalie said, her hand unlatching the door. "My mother spent her last morning in that house. I won't let strangers be the first ones to open her doors."
The heavy oak entrance yielded to the master key Rosalie had recovered from the Northern Heritage vault. Inside, the grand foyer smelled of dust, lemon wax, and stale cold. The servants had already fled, alerted by the morning news broadcasts of Emmett Durham's indictment.
Rosalie walked past the sweeping marble staircase and turned down the long, shadowed corridor of the north wing.
Manuel followed a few paces behind, allowing her the dignity of leading the way. When she stopped in front of a heavy, iron-reinforced door at the far end of the hall, he saw her shoulders rise and fall with a single, sharp breath.
It was the room where she had been bound to a bed frame at seventeen.
She slid the key into the lock and pushed the door open.
The room had been stripped of its furniture, but the heavy iron bolt holes still scarred the hardwood floorboards. In the center of the empty space stood a single framed canvas, wrapped in industrial brown paper and leaned carelessly against the stone hearth.
Rosalie knelt and tore the paper away.
It was Lorelei’s official portrait—the one Emmett had ordered removed from the gallery the week after her funeral. In the painting, Lorelei sat upright in a high-collared velvet dress, her expression sharp and discerning. But it was her hands that made Rosalie’s throat tighten: around her right wrist, Lorelei wore the same antique silver bracelet that now rested in Rosalie’s coat pocket.
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"He hid her away just like he hid you," Manuel said, standing in the doorway.
"He tried," Rosalie corrected, rising to her feet and turning toward the light streaming through the terrace windows. "But she left the roadmap. And we're going to use it to burn his empire down to the bedrock."
