black and huge. She sat down on the toilet and took a deep breath. All the things she needed to do in the next forty-five minutes pressed down on her. She took herself through all the steps. Pictured it happening perfectly.
Five minutes passed.
She went to the door.
Pulled it open as softly as she could manage and slipped back into Fitch’s room.
The wood-paneled walls now glowed with a soft warmth from candles on the bedside tables. They smelled like vanilla. The hardwood creaked as she crossed to the foot of Fitch’s bed.
The old man lay on his back with his arms and legs spread out. His shirt was unbuttoned, his pants pulled down to his knees. It was as far as he’d gotten. He snored quietly, his chest rising and falling.
He looked tragic.
“Bye, Johnny,” Letty whispered.
Then she moaned several times.
Full-voiced and throaty.
Hoping that would keep Fitch’s men away from his room for the time being.
CHAPTER TEN
T he bedroom door opened smoothly, without a sound. She moved in bare feet down the corridor. All of the doors she passed were cracked. The rooms, dark. Where the hallway opened into the main living area, she stopped. The spiral staircase was straight ahead, but hushed voices crept around a blind corner. It sounded like they were coming from the kitchen. For a moment, she stood listening. Two men. They were eating, probably picking through the leftovers.
Letty went quietly up the staircase, taking the steps two at a time.
Near the top, she caught a view down into the kitchen. It was James and some other black-suited man with long hair who she hadn’t seen before. They stood at the counter, dipping crackers into the foie gras.
She came to the second floor. A long hallway, empty and dark, branched off from either side of the spiral staircase. The blueprints had indicated that this level housed four bedrooms, two bathrooms and a study. Letty kept climbing, using the iron railing as a guide. The noise of the men in the kitchen fell farther and farther away. By the time she reached the final step, she couldn’t even hear them.
Letty stepped into the cupola of the house.
Because three of the walls consisted entirely of windows, the moonlight poured inside like a floodlight.
Letty ripped off the wig. She ran her hands carefully through her hair until her fingers found the razor blade.
Padding over to the desk, she turned on a lamp.
Her watch read 7 : 45 .
She stared up at the wall above the desk.
What the hell?
She’d been expecting to see the Van Gogh—a skeleton smoking a cigarette. What hung on the wall was an acrylic of a horse. Maudlin colors. Proportions all wrong. She was no art critic, but she felt certain this painting was very badly done.
Leaning in close, she read the artist’s signature in the bottom right-hand corner of the canvas.
Margaret Fitch.
Letty sat down in the leather chair behind the desk. Her head felt dizzy and untethered. Had Javier told her the wrong place to look? Had she somehow misunderstood him? No, this was Fitch’s office. In fact, there should be a plastic tube taped beneath the desktop. She reached under, groping in the darkness. All she felt was the underside of the middle drawer.
Assumptions.
Somewhere, she’d made a false one.
The blueprints had identified the cupola as an office, but maybe Fitch’s was actually down on the second floor.
That had to be it.
She spun the swivel chair around and started to rise.
Took in a hard, fast breath instead.
A shadow stood at the top of the spiral staircase, watching her.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
F or a long minute, Letty couldn’t move.
Her heart banged in her chest like a mental patient in a rubber room.
“ Dear old Mom did that one,” Fitch said, “God rest her soul.” He pointed to the painting of the horse behind his desk. “She gave it to me for Christmas fifteen years ago. I hated it at the time, and with good reason. Let’s be honest. It’s hideous. So I kept it in a closet, except for
Five minutes passed.
She went to the door.
Pulled it open as softly as she could manage and slipped back into Fitch’s room.
The wood-paneled walls now glowed with a soft warmth from candles on the bedside tables. They smelled like vanilla. The hardwood creaked as she crossed to the foot of Fitch’s bed.
The old man lay on his back with his arms and legs spread out. His shirt was unbuttoned, his pants pulled down to his knees. It was as far as he’d gotten. He snored quietly, his chest rising and falling.
He looked tragic.
“Bye, Johnny,” Letty whispered.
Then she moaned several times.
Full-voiced and throaty.
Hoping that would keep Fitch’s men away from his room for the time being.
CHAPTER TEN
T he bedroom door opened smoothly, without a sound. She moved in bare feet down the corridor. All of the doors she passed were cracked. The rooms, dark. Where the hallway opened into the main living area, she stopped. The spiral staircase was straight ahead, but hushed voices crept around a blind corner. It sounded like they were coming from the kitchen. For a moment, she stood listening. Two men. They were eating, probably picking through the leftovers.
Letty went quietly up the staircase, taking the steps two at a time.
Near the top, she caught a view down into the kitchen. It was James and some other black-suited man with long hair who she hadn’t seen before. They stood at the counter, dipping crackers into the foie gras.
She came to the second floor. A long hallway, empty and dark, branched off from either side of the spiral staircase. The blueprints had indicated that this level housed four bedrooms, two bathrooms and a study. Letty kept climbing, using the iron railing as a guide. The noise of the men in the kitchen fell farther and farther away. By the time she reached the final step, she couldn’t even hear them.
Letty stepped into the cupola of the house.
Because three of the walls consisted entirely of windows, the moonlight poured inside like a floodlight.
Letty ripped off the wig. She ran her hands carefully through her hair until her fingers found the razor blade.
Padding over to the desk, she turned on a lamp.
Her watch read 7 : 45 .
She stared up at the wall above the desk.
What the hell?
She’d been expecting to see the Van Gogh—a skeleton smoking a cigarette. What hung on the wall was an acrylic of a horse. Maudlin colors. Proportions all wrong. She was no art critic, but she felt certain this painting was very badly done.
Leaning in close, she read the artist’s signature in the bottom right-hand corner of the canvas.
Margaret Fitch.
Letty sat down in the leather chair behind the desk. Her head felt dizzy and untethered. Had Javier told her the wrong place to look? Had she somehow misunderstood him? No, this was Fitch’s office. In fact, there should be a plastic tube taped beneath the desktop. She reached under, groping in the darkness. All she felt was the underside of the middle drawer.
Assumptions.
Somewhere, she’d made a false one.
The blueprints had identified the cupola as an office, but maybe Fitch’s was actually down on the second floor.
That had to be it.
She spun the swivel chair around and started to rise.
Took in a hard, fast breath instead.
A shadow stood at the top of the spiral staircase, watching her.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
F or a long minute, Letty couldn’t move.
Her heart banged in her chest like a mental patient in a rubber room.
“ Dear old Mom did that one,” Fitch said, “God rest her soul.” He pointed to the painting of the horse behind his desk. “She gave it to me for Christmas fifteen years ago. I hated it at the time, and with good reason. Let’s be honest. It’s hideous. So I kept it in a closet, except for
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