he boys agreed to wait at the Charleston marina. They didn’t like it, but there was no other way. My cover only worked if I went in alone.

“This is way too risky,” Shelton said. “What if you run into Chance? Or worse, Hollis?”

“I’ll say I dropped by to chat. Chance thinks I like him, so he won’t be suspicious.”

Hi grinned ear to ear, but made no comment.

“Anyway,” I added quickly. “Chance will be in Greenville all weekend for the lacrosse finals. And with the legislature in session, Hollis should be in Columbia. Today’s our best shot.”

“We don’t know if Bolton won last night,” Hi said. “If the team lost, Chance might already be back.”

“They’re still there.” I pulled up iFollow on my phone. “The GPS puts Jason’s lacrosse group in Greenville. All of them. The team must still be alive in the tournament.”

“Go Griffins!” Hi quipped.

“Chance isn’t part of your iFollow group,” Ben pointed out. “We don’t know where he is, and can’t track him.”

True. With his Stone Age cell phone, Chance couldn’t run the app if he’d wanted to. Which I’m sure he didn’t.

“But Hannah is still in Greenville, too.” I tapped my screen. “She wouldn’t be there without Chance.”

Ben frowned, but nodded.

“Someone is going to be inside that house,” Hi said. “Claybourne Manor has forty freaking rooms! The place will be knee-deep in ninja butlers.”

I’d thought of that. “Hollis is rumored to be cheap. Jason once said there’s very little staff present on the weekends. The place should be almost empty.”

“Almost doesn’t mean completely,” Ben said.

“I know, but I have to chance it. We’re out of options.”

I shouldered my backpack. Inside were Katherine’s notebook and Karsten’s deposit slip. If I got arrested, I wanted the evidence with me. I had no illusions about winning a credibility battle with Hollis Claybourne. I’d need all the proof I could muster.

“Be careful,” Shelton warned. “If someone stops you, pretend you thought it was a museum.”

“If Chance catches you, act love-struck.” Hi winked. “That’ll work.”

“Love-struck?” Ben’s brow furrowed. “What’s he talking about?”

“Nothing. Wish me luck.” Stupid Hi.

I took Broad Street and turned right on Meeting, toward the Battery. South of Broad. Enormous mansions lined both sides of the street. The air stank of old money and blue blood. Privilege. I felt like a trespasser.

I reviewed my game plan as I walked. Sneak inside, poke around, get the hell out. Easy, right? This time, if I found something incriminating I’d go straight to the police. No more games. The stakes were too high.

I couldn’t stop thinking about Katherine’s journal entries. Imagine, finding bald eagles right there on the South Carolina coast. Remarkable.

But Katherine never had a chance to share her discovery. Someone silenced her. Permanently. Soon afterward, Cole Island was sold and the trees were destroyed. Bye-bye eagles.

Someone must’ve known about those birds. But there were no news reports. No articles. No photo spreads. Katherine’s journal was the only record of their existence.

If Hollis Claybourne knew about the eagles before he sold the island, he was a prime suspect in Katherine’s death. I needed something to prove he had that knowledge.

The thought of what I was about to do made me cold all over. Whoever murdered Heaton probably killed Karsten, and was trying to kill me. It could be Hollis.

And I was about to break into his home.

Something else worried me. The million-dollar question. Did Chance know about any of this?

I drew level with chez Claybourne.

Showtime.

Claybourne Manor is a registered historic landmark, even has its own website. Before departing Morris, I’d combed through online slideshows, trying to get a feel for the layout.

Built just after the Civil War, the house is styled after a nineteenth century Italian manor. Every inch is handcrafted. Crystal chandeliers. Carved wooden mantles. Elaborate moldings. A home fit for royalty. And a Claybourne has always sat on its throne.

I reviewed the stats I’d found on line. Three stories high, the house contains forty rooms, two dozen fireplaces, sixty baths, and a fifty-foot-long entrance hall.

And I planned to pop in and search the place by myself. Tremendous.

A ten-foot wall surrounds the two-acre property. Spikes top it, and ornate iron gates block access to the driveway.

I studied the gates as I walked by. A tourist, intrigued.

Centered in the scrolly wrought iron was the Claybourne family crest, a gray shield with three black foxes surrounded by black and red vines. The family motto arced above the crest: Virtus vincit invidiam. Virtue overcometh envy.

Please.

I peered through the bars.

A guard hunched inside a booth beside the drive, attention focused on a small black-and-white TV. Without breaking stride, I continued down the block.

Twenty yards past the gate, the wall turned a corner and shot back the length of the lot. The next-door neighbors had planted sumac to block their view of the brick. A narrow trail ran between the Claybourne’s wall and the shrubs.

I took a deep breath, looked both ways, then scurried down the trail. Fifteen yards from the sidewalk I reached a small service gate.

Right where it’s supposed to be.

I dropped to my knees and wiggled the bricks underlying the gate. One felt loose. A sharp tug and it lifted. A key lay in the dirt.

I smiled ear to ear. Cheshire cat style.

The things you can learn in class, if you listen. Thanks, Jason.

As quietly as possible, I swung open the gate. Ahead lay the manor’s formal gardens. Replacing the key, I stepped inside.

No turning back now. I was trespassing on private property. Again.

Dogwoods lined a cobblestone walk directly before me. To both sides of the trees stretched neatly trimmed lawn. Statues dotted the grass, unsmiling witnesses to generations of Claybourne picnics, garden parties, and croquet matches.

Lacking a better plan, I followed a branching path toward a naked cherub rising from a colossal stone fountain. Water arced from its oversized horn. A leaf covered its genitals. Classy.

The fountain was centered in a small courtyard from which paths led toward the four compass points. I’d entered from the east. The path to my left cut south, back toward the front door. I scurried north, toward the rear of the house.

So far, no alarm. I was still operating below the radar.

The path wound deeper into the grounds. Six-foot hedges cropped up, creating a narrow walking lane. Smaller paths intersected mine, giving the garden a mazelike feel. I soon lost my bearings.

My heart kicked up a notch. Yes, I was hidden. But I couldn’t see a thing. I could blunder into someone at any turn.

I reached another fountain. Three dolphins, water shooting from their mouths, koi swimming below. Stone benches faced in from three sides. A towering hedge surrounded the whole deal.

Which way to go?

I turned left, hoping I was still moving toward the back of the manor. The path widened, then ended at small lawn bordering the rear of the house.

Bingo. Door. Dead ahead.

I paused to look around. The coast was clear.

I scampered forward and pressed my back against the warm brick of the main building. I quickly tried the knob, which turned.

Deep breath.

I slipped inside Claybourne Manor.