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“Are there any outstanding issues?” asked Evelyn Hart, the committee chair and resident historian.

The group reviewed the remaining details. The guest list had been finalized, the musicians had been confirmed, and everything indicated that the evening would proceed as planned.

“Excellent,” Evelyn said, gathering her papers. “In that case, I believe we can conclude this meeting.”

People started getting up from their chairs and conversations resumed as everyone prepared to leave. I had just reached for my notebook when a woman across the table looked in my direction.

“Dr. Rossi, you’re attending the gala, aren’t you?”

The question came from Charlotte Hayes, a novelist I had met earlier in the evening. She was younger than I had expected for someone already several novels into her career, stylishly dressed and immediately easy to like. There was enough confidence in her tone to suggest she had already decided my answer.

“I haven’t given it much thought yet,” I admitted.

Alexander looked up from the agenda in front of him. “Every committee member has received an invitation.”

Charlotte smiled. “Then we’ll simply have to make sure she uses hers.”

The room laughed. “Charlotte has appointed herself chair of the unofficial attendance committee,” someone remarked.

“A responsibility I take very seriously.”

It was impossible not to smile. As the conversation continued, I glanced toward Alexander. He was already looking at me. Something in his expression had softened, the careful reserve I associated with him briefly absent. Almost as soon as it arrived, it was gone. He returned to the discussion as though nothing had happened. Had I imagined it?

“I suppose that’s one vote in favor of attending,” I said.

“At least six,” Charlotte corrected. “Possibly more.”

Looking around the table, I found it difficult to argue with her.

* * *

By the time the committee meeting ended, most of Blackwood Hall had settled into its quiet evening routine. The Research Pavilion, however, remained awake.

I returned to my office shortly after nine and found several members of the team still working. A promising set of results had come in while we were untangling the Trial Twenty-Seven mystery earlier in the day. None of us wanted to wait until morning to analyze them.

Time passed quickly. Data was reviewed, theories were debated, and more than one researcher changed their mind after a second look at the numbers. I let the conversations continue around me as I stepped into my office to look at the data myself.

By the time I looked up, the laboratory was noticeably quieter. A handful of lights were still on, but the energy that had filled the room a few minutes ago had faded. I returned to the screen. The results were too preliminary and it was far too early to justify excitement, but they pointed in the direction we had spent years working toward. Years of research rarely produced dramatic breakthroughs. More often, success arrived in small increments that seemed insignificant on their own but became meaningful when viewed together. Sometimes that was enough to change lives.

Those moments were the reason I had spent so much of my career advocating for Project Aurora, for the team behind it, and for the patients we hoped one day to help. It was exactly why I had come here after the committee meeting rather than going home.

The last of the team had finally gone home when I stood and crossed the room to pick up a report from the printer. I promised myself that this would be the last task of the evening. When I returned to my desk a few minutes later, a cup of coffee sat next to my laptop, steam still rising from it. Beside it were two creamers and a packet of sugar. Exactly how I took it.

The path to the printer was a straight shot across the room. I’d been facing it the whole time. Anyone approaching my desk would have crossed directly through my line of sight.

I hadn’t seen a soul. I hadn’t heard one either.

The Ghost of Blackwood Hall, Mateo had said. I hadn’t believed him then.

Now, alone in the quiet, I wondered how someone could have come and gone unnoticed. Without a sound, without a shadow, without me seeing a thing.

I looked at my laptop screen. Good. The screen was dark and locked, exactly as I’d left it. No confidential information exposed. But a locked screen couldn’t tell me if someone had tried to gain access. Whoever left the coffee had been close enough to my computer to try.

I gathered my things and left the coffee where it sat. I couldn’t decide whether it was meant to comfort me or unsettle me. It managed to do both.

* * *

The following morning, I arrived at the conservatory to find I was not alone. Charlotte Hayes was sitting on a bench near the reflecting pool with a notebook balanced on her knee and a cup of tea resting beside her. She looked up as I approached and smiled.