Copper Lake Confidential

chapter 7



Lunch was sandwiches of leftover steak and vegetables warmed and topped with gooey melted cheese, plus homemade chips Macy had picked up at Ellie’s Deli. By two o’clock, it was a dim memory. After eating, she’d begun packing in the living room while Stephen moved the stacks of boxes from the hallway to the garage. Without prompting, he’d organized them: keep, donate, get rid of, with donate meaning something of historical or collectible value, get rid of referring to things that could be donated anywhere.

She liked a man who could organize things on his own.

Hands on hips, she looked around the room before her gaze settled on the wedding portrait again. She’d felt foolish having an actual portrait painted; it was so outside the realm of Ireland experience, where even professional photographs were a rarity. Snapshots were good enough for her family.

But Mark had insisted—as had Miss Willa—and the artist had been more than happy to work from a photo. They’d had a big party when it had arrived, coinciding with their first anniversary and their move into the house, and people with their own portraits looming over them at home had admired it.

For the first few months, it had disconcerted her, confronting a six-by-eight-foot image of herself and Mark every time she’d walked into or past the room. Eventually she’d stopped noticing it, but now it disconcerted her again. It was a huge lie done in oils.

Dragging a chair to the fireplace, she climbed onto it and was gripping the bottom of the elaborate gilt frame when Stephen spoke from the doorway.

“What are you doing?”

“Taking it down.” Not as easily said as done. The sucker was heavy and attached to the brick far above her head. Holding on tighter, she leaned forward and shoved upward. The frame moved wildly, and so did she, losing her balance on the chair. Letting go, she flailed her arms then found herself steady with both hands on Stephen’s shoulders. He held her a moment before lifting her to the floor.

“Wait till we get a ladder,” he said reasonably.

“I don’t want to wait. I don’t want to look at it anymore.” But it was hard to be pouty when his hands were still cradling her waist and the heat radiating from his body was a match for her own. “Can we cover it with a sheet?”

“When we get a ladder.” He studied her a moment, then said, “How about this? I’ll get the marker and draw mustaches and glasses with fuzzy eyebrows on both of you. You won’t recognize yourself.”

“Sounds good.” She hesitated then rested her forehead against his shoulder. “Thank you for coming over. I know you’ve got better things to do.”

“Other things,” he agreed. “Not better.” His hand slid up her spine in the same sort of deep-tissue, muscle-relaxing massage he’d given Scooter the night before. She thought she might react the same way the dog had—a few guttural moans, then going limp and sinking to the floor with her tongue hanging out.

Before that could happen, though, he pressed a kiss to the top of her head and stepped away. “What are you going to do about all the furniture? The antique stuff.”

It took a moment for strength to replace the laziness he’d created in her body, then she glanced around. Every single piece in the room, including the chair she’d just climbed on, fit in that category. As far as she could remember, the newest piece was somewhere around one hundred fifty years old. “Sell what I can and donate the rest, I guess.”

“You have anyone in mind to handle the deal?”

“If I had ever needed an antiques dealer, I would have asked Miss Willa or Lorna. Now...” She shook her head.

“Lydia Kennedy is a client of mine. You know her?”

This time her head bobbed. The Kennedy family had been in Copper Lake for six generations or more and, like the Howards and the Calloways, were blessed with riches. “Her husband is a distant cousin of Miss Willa’s.”

“She likes to buy and sell antiques. Why don’t I call her and see who she recommends?”

“I’d appreciate that.” Macy hadn’t wanted to think about the furniture beyond getting rid of it, so sources of referrals hadn’t even made it to the back of her mind. There was no doubt Lydia dealt with only the best—she and Miss Willa had had that in common, though little else. Lydia was a kind woman who actually cared about people.

He pulled his cell phone from his pocket and started toward the hallway. Turning back, he asked, “What were you going to do with the painting if you’d gotten it down?”

She didn’t hesitate. “Taken it out in the backyard, chopped it up and burned it in the fire pit.”

His head shake was regretful. “The artist put a lot of work into it.”

“He was well paid.”

“Still...”

“The painting—however many thousands of dollars. Not having to see it again—priceless.” She smirked as he rolled his eyes. When he walked out of the room and began speaking to someone about getting Lydia’s number, she gave another serious look around her. All the smaller pieces were packed. Even the Tiffany lamps were solidly cuddled in Bubble Wrap, the boxes labeled Fragile and Handle with Care in big red letters. There was nothing left in the room that she could deal with on her own.

Hearing the murmur of Stephen’s voice from the kitchen, where he was probably making notes at the island, she went into the library across the hall. Mark hadn’t been an avid reader, but of course they had an entire room to house books. These were the really old ones, the rare ones, handed down through the family. It wasn’t likely that ungloved hands had touched them in her lifetime. No one read them for pleasure or even out of obligation. They simply sat on their shelves, looking old and tome-ish and neglected except for regular dustings.

“Lydia said she’ll get in touch with her two favorite dealers and set up an appointment.” Stephen stood beside Macy a moment before walking farther into the room. He stopped in the middle, right in the center medallion of the hand-woven Tunisian rug, and turned slowly.

What did he see? She saw a pretty, dark, lavishly decorated room with plush chairs, more Tiffany lamps, cherrywood and mahogany and oak tables that gleamed with age. She saw the library ladder, propped against one wall like a praying mantis, and the eight-foot-high shelves filled with row after row of books bearing uninspired covers and often script nearly impossible to decipher.

But he was an author. Words and books were his passion. Did his fingers itch to sit down with an armful of these? Could he spend a few hours or days in here, browsing and appreciating?

From the oak library table, he picked up a piece of jade, turning it gently in his large hands. Three dozen carvings were spread across the surface, none bigger than an egg, ranging in color from typical green to white and in between.

“Those belonged to Mark’s father. They were his passion. He made countless trips to Asia, selecting each one himself. When he died, they passed to Mark, though without the passion. He displayed them because that’s what you do with valuable old things. They used to be in the living room, but Clary could reach them there, and she was in that putting-everything-in-her-mouth stage, so he moved them in here.” She hugged her middle. “Clary didn’t like this room. All her crawling, walking and wandering, she wouldn’t come in here.”

Stephen carefully replaced the jade. “I don’t much like it, either. It’s not exactly a welcoming place. Libraries should be about comfort and books, not about hands-off displays. Though I bet some collector would pay a fortune for the whole set of books.”

“These books are going to the library, too. They never have enough money to do what they need. They can be the proud owner of all these rare books, or they can sell them and supplement their budget for a while. As for the jade...I’ll offer it to Lorna or maybe keep it for Clary.” Her smile was on the bitter side. “I don’t hate her grandfather.”

Distantly there came the sound of a thudding car door. Macy’s gaze jerked to the clock on the library wall. It wasn’t even three—early for Brent and Clary. If it was Louise Wetherby wanting an answer on the disposition of Fair Winds, Macy would give it to her: No. Not in this lifetime.

Brushing her hair back, she went to the door as the bell pealed, that awful funereal tone that Mark had picked. She opened it to find no one there, and for one instant a terrible fear started to form in her chest. Then a giggle came from around the corner, and from opposite sides of the steps, Brent, holding Clary, and Anne stepped out from where they’d pressed themselves flat against the wall. “Surprise!”

Breathe deeply. Don’t let them see they frightened you. She took a breath, then forced an animated exaggerated fright onto her features. “Oh, my gosh! You scared me!”

“Don’t be scared, Mama. It’s just me an’ Uncle Brent an’ AnAnne.” Clary leaped from Brent’s arms into hers, making her stumble back a step or two. Her little girl felt so solid and warm and smelled so sweet, and she’d missed her, God, more than she’d been willing to admit. She held her tightly for an instant, enough to make Clary squirm, then pressed loud smooches to the girl’s cheeks, throat, stomach, sending her into another fit of giggles.

“I know we’re early, but we can take Clary to the park for a few hours if you want,” Brent offered as he followed Anne through the door.

She swatted his shoulder before hugging him, too, then her sister-in-law. “You could never be too early. Not with my baby.”

There was a soft shuffle behind her, and everyone’s attention shifted that way. Macy saw surprise and curiosity on Brent’s and Anne’s faces before she shifted Clary to one hip and turned. An odd sense of nerves and pleasure went through her. It had been so long since she’d introduced a man to her family, and look how that had turned out.

But Stephen wasn’t Mark. He was so much more.

“Stephen, this is my brother, Brent, and his wife, Anne—”

“Uncle Brent and AnAnne,” Clary clarified.

Anne ruffled Clary’s silky brown hair. “She doesn’t quite get that there’s a t on aunt.”

“And my daughter, Clary,” Macy continued. “Guys, this is Stephen Noble.” She thought about clarifying him, too—my neighbor, my friend, the man who kissed me last night and made my whole body go weak. She didn’t add anything, though. Stephen was enough.

He and Brent shook hands; he and Anne exchanged greetings. His expression when he turned to Clary was serious, gentle, not overly friendly like so many adults. “Hey, Clary.”

Clary curled a strand of hair around one finger. “Why you wear those?” She pointed to his glasses with her other hand.

“Because I don’t see very well without them.”

“Can I try?”

Macy was about to tell her no when he removed the glasses and handed them over, apparently uncaring whether she got prints on them. Of course, they were way too big for her, but she held them with one hand over the bridge and half of each lens, then looked at each adult. “I see silly.”

“You are silly, Jilly. Now give them back carefully.”

Her daughter obeyed, and Stephen cleaned the glasses on his T-shirt—black today—before putting them on again.

Macy tuned out the conversation. She was here with the people she loved best and the man she liked best in the whole world. Finally, this house didn’t seem so cold.

* * *

After giving them all a tour of the house—it was Anne’s first visit and Stephen’s first time to see everything—Macy suggested they go outside to catch up. It was a warm afternoon, but with the shade and the ceiling fans overhead, it was comfortable.

Macy and Anne stopped in the kitchen to get drinks while Stephen, Brent and Clary went ahead. She ran in the yard from one flower bed to another with the unfailing energy of a three-year-old, and they more or less drifted to the teak love seat and chairs nearby. Stephen, who never found himself at a loss for words, wasn’t entirely sure what to say to Macy’s protective older brother. He’d caught Brent’s first wary look when he’d come out of the library. He figured none of the Irelands would be happy to see her getting involved with another man unless it was someone they knew and approved of.

“So...Macy says you’re a vet.”

Stephen nodded. “I work part-time at a clinic in town.”

Brent’s own nod was kind of measuring. Wondering what else he did with his time? If he was part vet, part lazy bum? If part-time work was the best he could get?

Stephen sat in one of the chairs, facing the love seat, its cushions sighing under him, and Brent took a seat across from him.

“How long have you been in town?”

“A little under a year.”

Another measuring nod. “Has she told—” Brent broke off, then substituted another question. “What brought you to Copper Lake?”

“My sister lives here. When the vet job came open, I decided to take it.”

“Is she younger or older?”

Stephen suppressed a smile. “Older. She works for the Copper Lake Police Department.”

As he’d expected, that took a little of Brent’s edge off. He was worried about his sister. Mark’s suicide had been tough for her. Stephen had no doubt that was what Brent had started to ask: Has she told you how her husband died? He didn’t want her hurt again.

They were on the same side there.

“Do you do anything besides be a vet part-time?”

Before Stephen could answer, Clary ran up, skidding to a stop right beside his chair. “What’s a vet?”

She looked like her mother. He’d seen it in the photograph, but gazing into her face, flesh and blood and dimension, it was so much more obvious. If there was a hint of her father in her, he couldn’t see it. Or maybe didn’t want to see it.

“A vet is a doctor for animals.”

“I go to a doctor for kids. His name is Dr. Chris. Do you give the animals shots?”

“When they need them.”

Her little face screwed up. “I don’t like shots, but I don’t cry, and I get a Band-Aid with a puppy on it.”

“That’s pretty cool. Do you like puppies?”

Her hair bounced with her emphatic nod. “Do you have any?”

“I have a dog. His name is Scooter.”

“Where is he?”

“At home.”

She pointed to the house. “In there?”

Of course she didn’t remember that this was her home, where she’d lived half her life. Granted, it had been a very short life. “No, my house is down the road that way.”

She looked to the north, gaze narrowed as if she could see through the fence and trees all the way to his little place, then turned that calculating look back on him. “Is it very far?”

“No.”

“Can we go see Scooter?”

Brent’s snort indicated he’d seen that request coming. Stephen didn’t mind introducing her to the dog. If he was going to help Macy pick out a puppy for her, it would be good to see how she interacted with him. “We’ll have to ask your mom about that.”

The kitchen door opened at that moment and Clary skipped over to meet Macy and Anne, each carrying a tray with drinks and plates of cookies. “Mama, he has a dog and we want to go see him. Can we, please?”

Macy’s expression as she smiled down at her daughter was enough to make Stephen’s chest hurt. Mothers loved daughters—no surprise there. But this look was so sweet, so intense, so...hell, so loving that he had to swallow hard to clear the lump from his throat.

When she shifted her gaze to him, the lump was right back. “You want to bring Scooter over? He can go for another swim.”

“Sure.” Stephen would have agreed to anything for that look. Go get the dog? No big deal. Flap his arms and fly the quarter mile? Easy. Slay a few monsters along the way? You bet.

With an excess of energy, he surged to his feet, pulling his keys from his pocket at the same time. Clary, cheering and swirling wildly, bumped into his legs and glanced up to give him a similar look. “Thank you, Dr. Stephen.”

He brushed his palm against her hair. “You’re welcome. We’ll be right back.”

“Thank you, Dr. Stephen,” Macy murmured when he passed her.

“You can repeat that later,” he whispered before stepping through the door.

He’d gone home after work to change clothes and walked back for lunch. His return walk was more of a jog. It took him maybe half a minute to wake Scooter and get his leash attached, then they headed for Macy’s.

“Home really is close,” Anne commented when the two of them came back onto the patio. She was sitting on the love seat next to Brent, a sweating glass of tea in hand. With straight black hair and a narrow face, she reminded him of an editor he’d once worked with, though Anne’s ready smile diminished the resemblance. That editor had had no sense of humor or compassion for brand-new authors.

“It’s just down the road,” he replied.

“Hey, Scooter,” Macy said, scratching between his ears. “We’ve got someone who wants to meet you, sweetie. Clary?”

The girl popped up from the carpetlike grass between two large beds of flowers, and her eyes widened to saucer size. “A puppy!” Scrambling to her feet, she ran across the lawn. At the last instant before collision, she stopped beside Stephen and Scooter and beamed at each of them. Excitement vibrated through her.

Stephen commanded Scooter to sit, then knelt beside them. “Clary, this is Scooter. He’s three years old, like you, and he likes to run and get tickled.”

“Like me!” she exclaimed. “Can I pet him?”

The dog had had plenty of exposure to kids, but Stephen stayed close anyway, holding her hand so Scooter could sniff her, showing her how to pet and where to tickle, explaining the importance of not startling or hurting him. When he was sure Clary understood as well as Scooter did, he stood and stepped back, letting them interact together.

“Have a seat,” Macy said, bumping his leg with her elbow.

He watched Clary a moment longer, then took the armchair next to Macy’s. A glass of tea had been placed on the coffee table in front of the chair, on top of a napkin that was soaked and dripping. After taking a long drink, he picked up a cookie, too, oatmeal with walnuts, and bit in.

“How’s it going with the packing?” Brent asked.

Macy’s slim shoulders lifted in a shrug. “I delivered a few boxes to the retirement center this morning. A group that helps young women is picking up the family room and some of the guest room furniture Monday, plus one antique dealer is coming then, the other one Tuesday morning. If you guys see anything you want, please take it or let me know.” She turned to include Stephen. “You, too.”

He pushed his glasses back up his nose to disguise his grimace. He didn’t want anything of Mark Howard’s...except his widow. And his little girl.

“We tried to get Macy to just turn the whole place over to an estate sale place,” Brent said. “She could have packed what she wanted in a couple hours and been done with this already.”

Anne rested her hand on his knee. “You tried. I agreed with her that she should do it the way she needed to.”

Stephen could understand needing to oversee the packing and sorting. Though she didn’t seem interested in any of the stuff for herself, there were surely items she wanted Clary to have and others, like those jade carvings, she intended to give to someone else. There must be a few things inside that belonged to her, that didn’t hold bad memories of her marriage.

None too subtly, Macy changed the subject. “I planned to put you two in one of the guest rooms, but since I’ve already started clearing them, I’m putting you in the guesthouse. It’ll give you a little privacy, which I know you haven’t had much of since the wedding. It’ll be a bit of a break until we get you sent on a proper honeymoon.”

Anne’s smile brightened her face. “Ooh, privacy. Hmm. Tell me again what we do with that?” After a half groan, half growl from her husband, she gestured toward the pool. “I know it’s only April, but how’s the water?”

“Scooter loved it last night,” Macy replied. “I haven’t been in.”

“Anyone mind if I dip my toes in? Otherwise, after my next three cookies, I’m gonna need a nap.” Anne looked around the group, then stood. “Hand me the keys, babe, and I’ll get our bags.”

“I’ll get our bags. You can get baby girl’s.” Brent polished off the last of his own cookie, then followed Anne inside.

After the door closed, silence settled, comfortable, familiar. “They seem like nice people,” Stephen said.

“Very nice.”

“They seem like they’ve been together for years.”

Macy kicked off her sandals and turned sideways in the chair to face him, her knees drawn up. “Actually, they’ve only known each other about fourteen, fifteen months. I guess it’s just one of those things. You know what you’ve found the minute you’ve found it. Not love at first sight but...more.”

Stephen had experienced a few of those things: people he’d known he would be friends with, people he’d known would be important to him long after their meeting. Not Sloan, though. His first impression of her wasn’t flattering. Smug, self-absorbed, aggressive.

It hadn’t been wrong, either.

He didn’t regret the marriage, though, or the divorce. He didn’t regret anything. Everything he’d done or had done to him had brought him to this place and made him who he was. He liked this place. He liked who he was.

He liked whom he was with.

“I should get the key for the guesthouse,” Macy said. “Can you keep an eye on Clary?”

“Sure. It’s not often I get to see someone wrap Scooter around her little finger. He’s usually the one who does the wrapping.”

She looked at her daughter, talking earnestly to the dog on a nearby patch of grass, and Scooter, listening just as earnestly, and that incredible smile returned. “My daughter is a charmer.”

He waited until the kitchen door closed behind her to quietly add, “She gets it from her mother.”

* * *

The clock in the hallway struck ten, only distantly audible through the glass door. Brent and Anne had said good-night and retired to the guesthouse a half hour before. Macy and Stephen remained on the teak love seat, Clary sprawled across her lap, snoring softly. Scooter, on the chair Brent had abandoned, was doing the same.

Ten or fifteen minutes had passed since either she or Stephen had spoken, but it didn’t bother her. Being able to talk with someone was important, of course, but being able to stay quiet with them was even more so. Mark hadn’t been much of a believer in silence, not just with her but with everyone. He’d liked to talk. Miss Willa had understood the value of silence, but she’d used it as a weapon. Quiet equaled disapproval in her life.

Macy definitely approved of her life at the moment. Clary in her arms, Stephen at her side, Brent and Anne only a shout away. If her parents were there, the moment would be perfect.

“How often do you see your parents?” she asked.

If Stephen wondered where the question had come from, it didn’t show. “Mom comes to Copper Lake three or four times a year, and Marnie and I go to Alabama for Mother’s Day, her birthday, Thanksgiving and Christmas.”

“What about your father?”

“We see each other in June—his birthday, Father’s Day, my birthday—then we shoot for a visit in the fall. We rely on the phone more than Mom and I do.” He shifted, a whisper of sound, a creak, a pop, and propped both feet on the coffee table. Basketball player-sized feet, big enough to dwarf hers when she rested them beside his. “You see your parents a lot.”

She laughed. “I’ve lived with them for the better part of the last eighteen months. When my dad gave me away at the wedding, he thought I’d stay away. The joke was on him.” And on her. When Mark had promised to love and honor her, she hadn’t known he would be killing people in his spare time.

A shudder ran through her, and she clutched Clary a little tighter, enough to make the girl stir.

Deliberately she changed the subject. “Do you have to work tomorrow?”

“Yeah, until one.”

“Brent mentioned going to out to dinner to that great little barbecue place near the interstate.” She hesitated, because she had claimed an awful lot of his time off this week, then took a breath and went on. “Would you like to join us?”

“Yeah. But I can’t.” He combed his fingers through his hair then pushed his glasses up before facing her in the dim light. “I have...an obligation tomorrow night.”

Something in her stomach looped and tightened. “That sounds serious.” Another hesitation. “It’s okay if you have a date. I mean, I’ve only known you a few days, and you don’t owe me an explanation. It’s really none of my—”

Reaching over, he laid his fingers across her mouth. “It’s not a date. The police chief is retiring, and they’re having a big party at River’s Edge, and Marnie asked if I’d take one of the female cops she works with. Believe me, I wouldn’t have said yes for anyone but Marnie because this detective scares me spitless. She makes my ex look spineless, and Sloan wasn’t intimated by anything.”

But Macy was. She was vulnerable, unsure of herself. Was that a point for or against her in Stephen’s estimation? Did he enjoy being able to take care of a woman for a change, or was she too needy for his tastes? Would the novelty wear off soon?

“River’s Edge is beautiful.” The antebellum mansion sat in downtown Copper Lake, a gleaming Greek Revival of a house overlooking the square and the river. Though built about the same time as Fair Winds, it was a far more inviting place where people had lived, loved and laughed—where they still did now that it was used for weddings, parties and other events. “You’ll have a good time.”

“Right,” he said morosely. “I have to wear a suit. And a tie.”

“I wouldn’t have guessed you owned long pants or a shirt with buttons, much less a tie.”

That made him grin. “I prefer an uncomplicated wardrobe.”

“I’ve noticed.” She thought of the dozen custom-tailored suits in Mark’s closet, the tuxes, the dress shirts hung in rows that cost enough per shirt to feed a family of four for a week. And his hand-painted silk ties, the Italian leather shoes... “‘Uncomplicated’ is nice.”

Nice. It was a greatly underrated word. She could be deliriously happy with nice for the rest of her life.

“And maybe you could tuck a muzzle into your pocket for Detective Scary Pants,” she added.

“Not a bad idea.” Slowly he straightened. “I’ll be brave. I’ve treated a lot of angry animals over the years. I’ve had my hand—hell, my whole arm—in places those animals didn’t want it, and I’ve survived. Maybe I can survive Kiki Isaacs.”

The name was familiar to Macy. Naturally, the Howards hadn’t socialized with mere police officers, but she’d read the newspaper regularly, and she’d seen the woman’s name and photograph a few times. Her vague recollection was curly hair and round face. No horns, no fangs, no six-inch claws.

“If I do survive and it’s not too late, can I stop by when it’s over?”

Warmth curled through her and she smiled. “I’d like that.”

He stood, causing Scooter to slowly rise, too, then gestured. “Do you need help getting her upstairs?”

“No, thank you. I don’t think I’m going to let go of her tonight.” Though she had to shift Clary to take his hand since getting out of the deep cushion without help wasn’t likely. He opened the kitchen door, then closed and locked it behind them and switched off the lights she pointed out as they made their way to the front door.

There he brushed Clary’s hair gently back from her face. “She’s beautiful. Though how could she not be, with you for a mother? You sure you don’t need help?”

“Sure.”

He fastened the leash to Scooter’s collar, then bent to kiss her. It wasn’t the kind of kiss they’d shared last night that had made her remember things in her very cells that she’d never felt before, not with Clary’s limp body between them, but maybe an even better kind of kiss.

A normal one. A routine one that was quickly becoming one of the best parts of her life.

“Good night,” he murmured, then opened the door and followed the newly energetic Scooter out.

“G’night,” Clary murmured unexpectedly before snuggling deeper against Macy.

Macy locked up and armed the alarm, balanced her daughter precariously while snagging the strap of the pink-and-purple backpack Anne had left hanging on the newel post, then headed up the stairs. She intended to have a good night. Her baby in her arms, Brent and Anne out back and sweet dreams of Stephen.

When she reached the landing, she ignored Clary’s room to the left and carried her into the master bedroom, laying her gently on the bed. She’d still been sleeping in a crib when she’d left a year and a half ago, a situation that certainly wouldn’t please her now. Only babies slept in cribs, and she was no baby. She was a big girl.

The backpack that carried her clothes was as big as she was, Macy noticed with a smile as she dumped it on the bed. Anne had covered every possibility: shorts, T-shirts, jeans, skirts, a dress and appropriate shoes, plus pajamas, swimsuits and hats. Macy stacked the clothes on a nearby chair, stripped her daughter and easily maneuvered her limp body into a pink nightgown with a picture of a smiling cat on the front.

After settling her baby, smelling distinctly of sweat and dog, on Mark’s side of the bed, she propped pillows along the edge as a barrier, tucked the covers around her, then carried her dirty clothes into the dressing room. They went into the laundry hamper along with Macy’s own clothes, and she changed into her own pajamas.

Pleasantly tired, face washed, teeth brushed, Macy returned to the bedroom and stopped so suddenly she stubbed her toe. She hadn’t heard anything out of place, didn’t see anything, but the hairs on her nape were rising as goose bumps popped up along her arms. She held her breath and listened but heard nothing. She breathed deeply to fill her starving lungs, and the difference registered so quickly that she choked on the air.

Mark’s cologne was drifting faintly on the air.

It was nothing unusual, she told herself. He’d lived in this room with that cologne for six years. It had probably permeated into the very structure of his dressing room, where he’d sprayed it at least twice a day. Tiny particles had drifted onto the carpet, absorbed into the walls and the furniture. And, look, the curtains were swaying slightly. The central air had come on, and the outrush of air was spreading the scent.

Shoulders relaxing, she crossed the room to the door. She might have an open-door policy during the day, but at night she wanted the security of closed doors, especially with Clary here. She didn’t want her little girl wandering around a strange house at night.

Her gaze skimmed across the box just outside the door that held bits of trash: crumpled paper, packing tape that had stuck to itself, other detritus. The box she’d thrown Mark’s cologne into just that morning.

There was no sign of it. She rifled through the contents, thinking the heavy glass must have sunk to the bottom, but no, it wasn’t there.

Arms hugged to her middle, Macy backed into the bedroom. Maybe Stephen, Brent or Anne had seen it there and thought it was in the trash by mistake. Maybe one of them had set it aside to ask her about and had forgotten. Maybe...

She closed the door, locked it, then dragged a heavy chair in front of it. Hands clenched to keep them from trembling too much, she went to Mark’s dressing room, slowly turned the knob, even more slowly turned on the light and stepped inside.

The elegant black bottle sat on the dressing table.

Oh, God.