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the plane kept hitting pockets of turbulence. Standing at the entrance to the bedroom, I took time to absorb the ambiance, and to let the hushed whispers that lingered in the walls wash over me. Since I wasn’t fighting them like a crazy person, they seemed less frenzied. Easier to understand. It’s amazing how a Diet Coke had the power to calm me down.
    There were two areas in the bedroom that I hadn’t touched besides the bed, and that was out of bounds. A comfy-looking, deep-cushioned wingback chair sat in one corner of the room. The fabric was a deeper shade of peach than the walls, and someone had carelessly tossed an inviting, nubby afghan over the back. It was designed to cuddle into for a good read or maybe to watch a movie, and there was a flat screen monitor attached to the opposite wall—probably for just that purpose. No telling what secrets that chair would share with my fingertips. My hands itched with the possibility of potential clues.
    The other thing I hadn’t checked was the closet. I headed there first, slid the door open, and picked up a few flickering images of Pierce and Miz Stalker. Nothing to spark my radar. And then I looked, really looked, at the contents. A tingle worked its way through my veins. Along one wall was an arsenal, an assortment of weapons I didn’t recognize, but why would I? I’d spent hours at the firing range—first with my Kimber, and more recently with a Sig .380, but that was it as far as my proficiency went.
    A couple Kevlar vests hung on hooks, along with a black windbreaker, and an empty duffle bag. The duffle had to be the safest thing for me to touch. The weapons would hit my internal monitor with a barrage of ugly, and possibly bloody, images. And the vests were equally risky.
    I rubbed my hands together, and did a minute of deep breathing. Considering the contents of the closet, that duffle could hold some knock-me-on-my-ass secrets, and I wanted to be prepared.
    It had seen some use, obvious in the heavily stained khaki canvas, and zippered pockets with worn edges. I braced my back against the doorjamb and brushed my fingers over the fabric. The first image that popped up was of her hand, at least I assumed it was an appendage that had belonged to my DB. Square, unpolished fingernails, capable and strong fingers, but shorter than I would have thought. Her face was more delicate, and didn’t seem to go with the hand I was looking at, but the next image confirmed my guess. She leaned over when she secured the bag on the hook, and I got a clear view of her face. Definitely the same woman.
    I slid the duffle out of the closet and laid it out on the floor. Going for the smaller side pocket first, I was rewarded with nothing but a dozen or so spheres of chocolate mint truffles wrapped in foil. They happened to be one of my favorites, so maybe she wasn’t all bad. I popped one in my mouth. No sense wasting them.
    Moving on to the main compartment, I gingerly squeezed the zipper pull between the pads of my thumb and index finger. It was cold against my skin, and the sound of the teeth opening sent a shiver over my shoulders. I ran my hand along the inside and a series of images flowed through my head; Miz Stalker packing her weapons, adding a change of clothes, some ammo, and finally a photograph of Millie and Harlan. An old photo. They appeared to be in their late forties, so it must have been taken when they first went to work for my parents.
    Recycled air swirled down my throat, leaving the bitter taste of chaos behind. Pierce had known about my childhood home long before the explosion, so it made sense that he could have met Millie and Harlan, maybe even made it a point to meet them. And maybe he shared that info with Miz DB Stalker, but that didn’t explain the picture. Photographs didn’t happen in my family. It was one thing my parents, James and Loyria Gray, were adamant about. No pictures of them, of me, and certainly not of our gardener and…butler. I