Page 11 of 13 Nights

"I've read Barrett. What about primary documents? Muster rolls, regimental correspondence, anything from the original German archives or local collections?"

"Most of that material is in Marburg or at the state archives in Wiesbaden." He sets the book down. "We have some local pieces in the research room, but it's being reorganized right now. Probably another week before it's accessible."

"You offered me research access the first time I walked in."

"I offered to help. The room itself is a mess right now." His tone stays easy, helpful, perfectly reasonable. "I'd rather let you in when you can actually find things."

I study him for a moment. Tom Hadley is a warm, intelligent man who runs a bookshop and the local historical society.

The offer he made a week ago just developed conditions he didn't bother to mention at the time. His eyes hold mine with the steady calm of someone who has decided exactly how much truth to offer and is comfortable with the portion he's withholding.

"What about your family's collection?" I ask. "My mother's research references something called the Hadley collection. Local documents, family records. Ring any bells?"

The pause is brief. If I weren't watching for it, I'd miss it entirely. "The Hadley papers are more family history than academic archive. Property records, local correspondence, that sort of thing. Nothing that would help with Hessian military research."

"My mother seemed to think otherwise."

"Your mother was chasing something that wasn't there." The words come out sharper than anything he's said to me before. He catches it, and the easygoing bookshop owner slides back into place like a mask being readjusted. "She was a thorough researcher. Thorough people sometimes cross-reference more broadly than the material warrants."

"You sound remarkably familiar with her methods for someone who only thinks she spent time here."

Something closes behind his eyes. "My family remembers its researchers."

"But not what they researched?"

"Not everything in a private collection belongs to the public."

There it is. Ownership, not denial. He's guarding something his family considers theirs, and he's decided I'm not getting near it, at least not today.

I don't push. The better play is patience. I'll come back with something he can't deflect so easily.

"No problem. If you change your mind about letting me scavenge around your research room," I say. "And if any of those Hadley papers turn out to be relevant after all, I'd love to take a look."

Tom's smile is warm, genuine, unwavering. "I'll let you know."

I buy a second volume on Hessian military history on my way out.

Back at the cottage, the afternoon disappears into my mother's documents and the regiment's deployment history. I try twice to open my novel file and get as far as the blinking cursor both times before closing it. The real mystery is pulling harder than anything I could invent.

By dusk, I've stopped pretending I'm going to work on the novel. I make dinner, leave the porch light on, and sit at my desk with my mother's folder open beside the laptop.

He comes after ten. The gravel gives him away first, the same deliberate stride I heard last night, and then the shape of him at the edge of the lamplight. Period coat, tall boots, the face from my mother's sketch. He stops at the base of the porch steps.

"You're still here," he says.

"You sound surprised. I told you I would be."

"Yes, but I keep hoping you'll change your mind and be sensible."

I'm on the porch again, but I've dispensed with the second chair. The negotiation tonight is going to happen standing.

"You told me to ask your name again if I was still here. I'm still here."

His gaze moves over me, weighing. The way he holds himself, shoulders set, weight balanced, arms loose, reminds me of men I've interviewed who were dangerous for a living. He doesn't perform threat. He carries it.

"What have you found?" he asks, instead of answering.

"You first. I showed you mine last night."