I peeked in the closet. Bolton Prep uniforms hung from a jumble of mismatched hangers. Italian leather shoes lay heaped on the floor. Expensive silk ties sat balled on a built-in shelf.
"Chance," I whispered. "Quite the slob. Surprise, surprise."
Next, I poked through the books. Mostly nonfiction.
I stayed out of the dresser. Even I have limits. And if the door swung open, the last thing I wanted to be caught holding was Chance Claybourne's underpants.
Finally, I arrived at the desk. Disconnected cords awaited the return of a laptop. Papers and books lay haphazardly tossed. A printer sat next to a scanner, neither plugged in. A Citadel mug held pens and highlighters.
A manila envelope caught my eye. Originally sealed with red tape, one end was sliced open. I noted a logo with the acronym SLED.
South Carolina Law Enforcement Division.
The fingerprint report.
I pulled a single sheet from the envelope. A handwritten note was clipped to the front. It read: "Here's the info. You owe me! See you on the links, Chip."
I frowned. Why hadn't Chance given me the actual report? Was he holding back?
Relax. He'd probably promised not to let it out of his possession. And he didn't want me chasing a dangerous crook like Newman. It's not surprising he didn't share the hard copy.
Curious, I scanned. Saw a photocopy of the fingerprint I'd lifted from the microfilm reader. Next to it was a mug shot.
I almost dropped the paper in shock.
That face! I knew it. The buzz-cut hair. The scarred jawline.
I read every word twice.
The report didn't identify any James Newman. He wasn't mentioned anywhere in the document. The print belonged to someone else.
Someone I'd met once before.
Tony Baravetto. Personal chauffeur to Chance Claybourne. The man who drove me home the night of the disastrous cotillion.
My mind raced. What did this mean?
But I knew.
Chance lied to me.
One by one, links connected.
Baravetto followed us to the library.
Baravetto learned that we knew about Katherine Heaton.
Baravetto worked for Chance Claybourne, son of Hollis Claybourne, our prime suspect in Katherine Heaton's murder.
Then, one awful, inescapable connection.
Chance Claybourne might be trying to kill me.
CHAPTER 63
Chance had played me like a xylophone.
And I'd fallen for it. Hook, line, and one-ton sinker.
Like a love-struck moron.
Chance was only interested in protecting his father's secret. He'd toyed with me, distracted me from the truth. And I'd been suckered.
Shame burned my face. How could I have been so stupid? Chance probably thinks I'm wrapped around his little finger.
We'll see about that. You messed with the wrong girl, Claybourne.
I knew what I had to do. Find the evidence. Bring the Claybournes down.
I shoved the print report into my bag.
Livid. Furious at Chance. At myself.
I let the anger build. Multiply. Reminding myself again and again how dense I'd been. How gullible. How juvenile. The rage blossomed in an instant.
Something flashed in my brain.
My lips curled.
A low growl rose from my throat.
SNAP.
The flare rushed through my veins. Energizing me. Filling me with deadly purpose. My senses sparked. Soared.
Golden light shone from my eyes.
I eased the door open and sniffed the hallway. Burnt tobacco, one thread among many. I honed in, tracked the scent back toward the main staircase.
Hollis Claybourne smoked cigars--the odor would lead me to his study. I slunk down the corridor, eyes boring through the gloom.
Swish.
I froze. Cocked my head. The sound was faint, but growing in intensity, coming right for me.
To my left stood a towering armoire. I shrunk into its shadow and pressed myself to one side. Waited.
Seconds later, a maid passed, skirt swaying with the movement of her body.
My heart returned to my chest.
Yikes. Without my flare, I would never have heard in time.
I continued toward the staircase, sniffing all the while. The olfactory trail led to the third floor. I followed.
Leaving the last riser, I entered a long passageway set at intervals with small brass sconces. Dark murals covered the walls--men killing game, men in battle, men in wigs signing documents with feather pens.
The smoke smell was coming from the second door on the right. I slipped inside.
The chamber was massive, its opposite side an expanse of floor to ceiling windows framed by red velvet drapery drawn back by gold cords. Bookcases climbed the remaining walls to a wood-beamed ceiling twenty feet up. A wrought-iron catwalk circled the room three yards above the floor, accessed by a spiral staircase tucked into the far left corner.
In the room's center, four leather-bound chairs formed a semi-circle around a low coffee table. The arrangment faced an enormous stone fireplace. Behind the seats, a desk the size of Kansas sat with its back to the window. On it were pictures of Hollis smiling or shaking hands with famous people. Souvenirs from a life in the upper crust.
Now what?
Hollis Claybourne's study made the Colosseum look small.