He’d been close to his brother and nephew, though.
So was she.
After all, she was family, and she remained family. And she had fallen more and more in love—or maybe just lust—with her nephew, who was, after all, only a nephew by marriage.
There was just something about him.
He could make her do anything, even when she knew he was behaving like a spoiled brat.
She looked at him now, though, and swallowed hard. “I would think you, of all people, could be sympathetic. She died a terrible death.”
“What death isn’t terrible?” he asked lightly. Then he wrapped his arms around her. His fingers teased suggestively against her breasts. She felt an instant surge of excitement sweep through her. He was young and handsome.
And rich.
She couldn’t help be afraid that he would lose interest in her. She needed to go on acting a little bit forbidden, to keep herself exciting and erotic.
She rose and lifted her skirt so she could straddle him, where he sat on the couch. She knew that he liked it when things seemed a little taboo. Dirty. He liked to sneak in quickies in places where they shouldn’t be exposing themselves. He liked to do it when she was dressed, just lifting her skirt for access. Like this.
She moved her hand, playing with his trousers, pretending to struggle with his belt buckle and zipper. As if she were desperate.
He was actually so easy.
And he had a real thing for her. He lusted after her. Maybe he even loved her.
They made swift, frantic love there on the couch, and she relaxed against him.
She had forgotten the television while they were in the throes of passion, but now she could hear the anchorman again as he suggested that Lori had been sexually assaulted by her killer, that she had probably been killed soon after she had last been seen, somewhere between four and nine o’clock on Sunday afternoon, and that several days in the water had accelerated the decomposition of her body.
Mary leaned against Jared and stared in his eyes. She could feel him growing hard again inside her.
“Jared?”
“What?”
Where were you on Sunday evening?
But the words wouldn’t form on her lips. She shook her head, closed her eyes and leaned against him again. Afraid.
Afraid that he might realize what she had been about to say.
“Never mind,” she said, and started to move above him.
At O’Malley’s, Don Tracy, Brook Avery and Larry Levine were sharing a table.
“It’s all so horrible,” Brook said, shuddering.
“Nevermore, indeed,” Don said, lifting his beer.
“Shit,” Larry swore.
Brook set a hand on his shoulder. “Larry, we’ll be all right.”
Larry frowned. “Of course we’ll be all right. That’s not why I’m pissed.”
“Then…?” Don asked.
“I should have fucking been there!” Larry said. “Can you believe it? I’m a Raven, and this is the story of the year, and I should be covering it.”
Eileen Brideswell and the rest of the board members walked into the bar at that point, staring at the television as they walked over to join the others, who pulled over an empty table to make room for them.
Over in a corner, Paddy pulled out his phone. He hated feeling like a tattletale, but he couldn’t help worrying about Eileen. In his opinion, Genevieve needed to know where her mother was.
In his robe, in his own room, Albee Bennet watched the evening news and lifted his teacup to the television.
“Quoth the raven,” he said sadly. “Ah, Thorne, you would have loved the irony.”
Then he set his teacup down and looked around.
The night had somehow become ominous.
He rose and locked the door to his room, even though the house had an excellent security system, and these days it was always set.
He wasn’t about to end up like Thorne. He wouldn’t trust anyone. He would be safe.
Even so, when he went to bed, early, he couldn’t help feeling afraid.
She had hired Joe Connolly because he was good at his job, Genevieve told herself, even if she had to admit that other reasons might have lurked in the back corners of her mind. He was good, and she was living proof of that.
Adam owned a place up by Central Park, so he had headed up there a while ago and was making arrangements for his employees to join him. Brent Blackhawk, who was coming with his wife, was a sheriff in Virginia. A lawman. That should mollify Joe, once he found out what she had done, she thought.
With Adam out of the house, she tried to think as Joe would think, to reason. The possibility remained that the killer had nothing to do with the New York Poe Society and was using the connection as a smoke screen. She started with simple deduction. Had the murders been carried out in a manner that definitely spoke of someone emulating Poe’s writings?
No.
Poisoned wine didn’t connect directly with any of Poe’s stories, nor was it terribly unique.