The cold mountain wind howled through the broken glass window, blowing the thin white curtains wild and messy inside the dark room.

Evelyn stayed down on her knees on the cold floor carpet. Her slender fingers carefully picked up the single black leather glove lying right beside the shattered glass. She held it close under the bright tactical light that Mark held in his hand.

"This is Marcus's glove," Evelyn said, her clear blue eyes flashing with sharp intelligence. "Look at the custom silver crest stamped near the wrist strap. It is the exact crest he uses on his private riding gear. He was here in this room himself."

Julian...