Ellie paused. The memory seemed to physically weigh on her narrow shoulders.
"The man asked if she was sure the drop at O'Keeffe's Run was steep enough. Miss Molly laughed. She said a wagon went over two winters ago, and they didn't find the bodies until the spring thaw."
Arthur listened to the sound of his own pulse drumming in his ears. The foundation of his life—his grand house, his sprawling acres, his beautiful, refined wife who had poured his coffee just an hour ago—was suddenly dissolving into ash.
"Is that all?" Arthur asked softly.
"No," Ellie said. She reached into the deep pocket of her apron and pulled out a small, worn leather ledger. "The man stepped out onto the porch to smoke. When he came back inside, he dropped this near the boot scraper. I waited until they went to the study, and I took it."
Arthur took the small book. He opened it carefully. Inside, written in sharp, heavy pencil, was a list of names, dates, and bank figures. On the final page, his own name was written:
Arthur Miller. Accident. Mountain pass. Payment: $10,000 upfront, $10,000 upon reading of the will.
There was no denying the reality in front of him. His life had ended while he slept under his own roof.
Arthur looked at Ellie. "Does your mother know about this?"
"No, sir. She was asleep. If I woke her, she would have lit a lantern and made a fuss. The man might have seen."
"You did the right thing," Arthur said, slipping the ledger into his coat pocket. "I need you to listen to me very carefully, Ellie. What you did this morning is the bravest thing I have ever witnessed. You saved my life. Do you understand that?"
Ellie swallowed hard and nodded.
"Now," Arthur said, "I need you to go back to your mother's cabin. Tell her you feel sick to your stomach. Tell her you need to lie down. Do not mention me. Do not mention the carriage. If anyone asks, you haven't seen me since yesterday. Can you do that?"
"Yes, sir."
"Good. Go."