Part 7
Gideon remained near the doors, watching the garden through the narrow opening.
“Did Adrian ever give you anything before he died?” he asked.
“No.”
“A key? A file? A number?”
“No.”
“Did he ask you to keep something?”
“He asked if he could stay with me in London.”
Celia turned toward her.
“You never told us that.”
“He changed his mind.”
“Why?”
“I told him my apartment was too small.”
The excuse had sounded practical at the time. Sloane had rented a one-bedroom flat near a design studio where she was completing a temporary contract. Adrian had laughed and said he could sleep anywhere. She had said she needed space.
Two days later, he texted that he had worked things out with Gideon.
Sloane had not asked what that meant.
“I didn’t want him there,” she said. “He was exhausting. He checked the locks every night. He thought every parked car belonged to someone watching him. I told myself I was setting a boundary.”
Celia’s voice softened. “You were young.”
“I was twenty-four.”
“That is young.”
“It was old enough to answer a phone.”
Gideon looked back at her.
“He called you that night?” he asked.
Sloane shook her head.
“The night before.”
“What did he say?”
“He asked if I still had the blue suitcase.”
Celia frowned. “What blue suitcase?”
“The one we used as children.”
Gideon stepped away from the doors.
“Where is it?”
“I don’t know. Storage, maybe.”
“In this house?”
“I assumed.”
Celia looked toward the staircase. “The nursery trunks were moved to the east attic after the renovation.”
“When?” Gideon asked.
“Last spring.”
“Who supervised it?”
“The household office.”
“Who specifically?”
Celia looked away.
Gideon gave a humorless breath. “Another anonymous person?”
“Elaine managed the inventory.”
“Elaine left three months ago.”
“Then the current staff will have the records.”
“The current staff may have disabled the house.”
Sloane felt a cold prickling along her arms.
“Was the blue suitcase locked?” Gideon asked.
“It had two brass latches.”
“Combination?”
“No.”
“Did Adrian ever use it as an adult?”
“Not that I know.”
“Why would he ask about it?”
“He said he had remembered where we used to hide things.”
Celia stood too quickly and caught the chair for balance.
“The attic.”
Gideon blocked her path toward the stairs.
“No one goes up.”
“If the second copy is there—”
“If the person who attacked Sloane believes that, he may already be waiting.”
Celia looked toward the landing.
Sloane tried to picture the old suitcase. Blue canvas, one corner worn white, an airline tag still attached from a family trip to Maine. She and Adrian had used it to hide birthday presents, letters, a dead beetle he insisted was rare, and once a bottle of their father’s whiskey that neither of them drank.
After their grandmother died, they hid her wedding photograph inside because Celia planned to throw it away.
They chose the suitcase because adults stopped seeing children’s belongings as soon as the children outgrew them.
“He wouldn’t put the copy there,” Sloane said.
“Why not?” Gideon asked.
“Because he asked if I still had it. If he already used it, he would know where it was.”
“Unless he wanted to know whether you had found what he left.”
“He didn’t say anything about finding something.”
“He may not have trusted the call.”
Sloane thought of Adrian’s habit of speaking around his fear. He rarely named what he believed was happening. He asked whether she had noticed a car, whether anyone had moved a chair, whether she remembered a password from childhood.
She had treated each question as part of his illness because considering the alternative demanded action.
“What did you tell him?” Celia asked.
“That I thought it was here.”
“And then?”
“He said, ‘Good.’”
Gideon looked up the staircase.
The dark landing no longer felt empty.
A sound came from somewhere above them.
Not a footstep. Something lighter.
A slow click, followed by a soft rolling noise across wood.
Celia’s breath caught.
Gideon raised one hand, signaling silence.
The object rolled for several seconds, then struck something hollow and stopped.
Sloane looked at the library floor.
“The marble,” she whispered.
Gideon did not turn.
“What?”
“The black inlays. One is loose near the upstairs sitting room. Adrian used to roll marbles along the hallway and try to stop them inside it.”
Celia stared toward the landing.
“That was a marble?”
“Maybe.”
“Who would roll it now?” her mother asked.
No one answered.
Gideon moved to the foot of the staircase again.
Sloane reached for his trouser leg with her uninjured hand.
He looked down.
“If he wanted us upstairs,” she said, “that would do it.”
Gideon remained still.
Another sound came from above—a faint vibration, like a phone buzzing against wood.
Celia opened her clutch and looked at her silent device.
Sloane’s phone had been taken.
Gideon’s phone remained dead in his hand.
The buzzing stopped.
A few seconds later, it began again.
Gideon stepped backward from the staircase.
“He left her phone upstairs,” he said.
“Why?” Celia asked.
“To bring us to it.”
“Or someone is calling her.”
“Who knows she is here?”
Celia looked at Sloane.
“I didn’t tell anyone,” Sloane said.
“Your car is outside.”
“I came through the west drive. The reception valets wouldn’t have seen me.”
“Did anyone follow you?”
“I checked.”
“That isn’t an answer.”
“No. I didn’t see anyone.”
Gideon crossed to the library desk and opened drawers one at a time. He found an old brass letter opener, looked at it, then set it down.
Sloane noticed.
“You’re disappointed it isn’t a weapon.”
“I’m disappointed this room contains thirty years of expensive objects and nothing useful.”
Celia said, “There is a fire extinguisher behind the foyer panel.”
Gideon went to the panel, opened it, and removed the red cylinder.
The bright color looked vulgar against the cream walls.
Sloane almost laughed again.
Her father noticed. “What?”
“You look ridiculous.”
May you like
“I feel ridiculous.”
It was the first honest thing any of them had said that did not hurt someone else.
