Part 10
One.
Then another.
Then another.
Darkness advanced along the curve.
Celia gripped the chair.
Sloane felt the memory card cut deeper into her palm.
“Is that controlled from the service room?” she asked.
“Yes,” Gideon said.
“Could it be automatic?”
“No.”
The final path light went dark.
The glass panes in the front doors reflected only the library lamps and the three people inside.
Gideon pulled the remaining door shut but did not engage the lock.
“Why aren’t you locking it?” Celia asked.
“If someone is inside, I don’t want to seal us in.”
“If someone is outside?”
“The lock will not stop them.”
Celia looked at the heavy dark wood. “Then what will?”
Gideon picked up the fire extinguisher.
Sloane almost told him again that he looked ridiculous. The humor would not come.
A low vibration moved through the marble.
At first, she thought it was another phone upstairs. Then the sound deepened.
An engine.
Distant, idling beyond the hedges.
Celia turned toward the doors.
Gideon moved in front of Sloane without appearing to decide to do it.
The engine stopped.
Silence returned.
No headlights appeared.
No doors opened outside.
The family waited.
A minute passed.
Then two.
Sloane’s breathing became easier only because exhaustion had taken the strength from panic.
“Maybe it left,” Celia whispered.
Gideon did not answer.
Sloane studied the floor near the broken glass.
The pale blue liquid had spread farther along the black inlay. A narrow trail led away from the fragments, not toward the library but toward the base of the staircase.
“Dad.”
He looked back.
“The spill.”
He followed her gaze.
A small blue mark stained the edge of the first stair. Another appeared on the third.
Someone carrying the broken glass, or stepping through it, had gone upstairs.
Gideon turned toward the landing.
Sloane’s phone remained visible between the balusters.
The pale screen lit again, but this time it did not vibrate.
A photograph filled the display.
From below, they could see only a dark image with a white shape near the center.
Celia moved closer to the stairs.
“What is that?”
Sloane narrowed her eyes.
The white shape looked like a hand.
A bandaged hand.
Her own.
The photograph had been taken minutes earlier from somewhere above the library entrance.
Someone had watched them the entire time.
Celia made a small sound.
Gideon raised the fire extinguisher and stepped beneath the landing.
“Come down,” he said.
His voice carried through the foyer and into the upper hall.
No one answered.
“I know you can hear me.”
Sloane stared at the phone screen.
The photograph changed.
The next image showed Gideon and Celia entering through the front doors. Celia still held the champagne glass. Gideon’s face was turned toward the broken shards.
The angle came from the upper landing.
The image changed again.
Sloane saw herself on the floor, receiver against her cheek, before her parents arrived.
Whoever had taken it had been standing above her while she made the call.
Gideon’s cold fury deepened into something quieter.
“You had time to leave,” he said toward the darkness. “You chose to stay.”
Celia whispered, “Do not provoke him.”
“He already attacked her.”
“We don’t know what he wants now.”
“Yes, we do.”
Gideon looked at Sloane’s bandage.
The phone screen went black.
A soft sound came from the upper hall.
A door closing.
Gideon started up the stairs.
Sloane tried to call him back, but the first word broke beneath her breath.
Celia caught his arm.
“No.”
“Let go.”
“You cannot go after him.”
“I am not waiting for another photograph.”
“He wants you separated from her.”
“And standing here gives him what?”
“A target he can see.”
Gideon looked at his wife’s hand on his sleeve.
“Let go.”
Celia did not.
For a moment, they stood on the first stair, locked in the old conflict between his need to act and her need to control the conditions of action.
Sloane forced air into her lungs.
“He’s not upstairs anymore.”
Both parents turned.
“How do you know?” Gideon asked.
“The terrace.”
“What?”
“The library terrace door was closed when you came in.”
“It still is.”
“No. Look at the curtain.”
A thin panel of silk near the back of the library moved inward.
Cold air entered from behind it.
The terrace door stood open by less than an inch.
Gideon descended and crossed the library, keeping the extinguisher raised. He stopped before the curtain and pulled it aside from a distance.
The glass door remained latched.
The movement came from a narrow vent beneath it.
He looked back at Sloane.
“Air system.”
“It wasn’t moving before.”
“The heat may have started.”
The nearest brass vent gave a low hum.
Warm air began to flow.
A smell entered with it.
Rosemary.
The same scent as Celia’s drink.
Celia turned toward the intact glass.
Gideon crossed back to the reading table and wrapped a linen napkin around the stem. He lifted the drink and smelled it without bringing it close to his mouth.
“There’s something else,” he said.
“What?” Celia asked.
“Bitter almond.”
Sloane’s fear sharpened.
“Did you taste that?”
Celia swallowed. “The drink was sweet.”
“How much did you have?”
“One sip.”
“Are you certain?”
“Yes.”
Gideon carried the glass to the far end of the desk and set it away from them.
Celia touched her throat.
“I feel fine.”
“That may not mean anything.”
“No medical staff,” Sloane said.
Her father looked at her.
“The phones are dead, the drive is dark, and someone is inside or controlling the house. We do not open the door for anyone until we know who it is.”
Celia sat again, but less gracefully this time.
“What if the drink was meant to make me ill?” she asked.
“Then the broken one may have been meant for Sloane,” Gideon said.
“Why?”
“To make what happened look different.”
“Like what?”
“A fall. Confusion. A family incident.”
May you like
Sloane looked at the light bruising along her arm.
The attacker had not spoken while approaching. He had grabbed the envelope, forced her against the cabinet, searched the folds of her gown, and struck her only when she tried to see his face. Every movement had been controlled.
