The inside was a jumble of papers and random objects, none of which seemed all that important—random photos of Mum as a baby, business cards, old insurance and credit cards—like he’d just dumped her pocketbook into the box on top of everything else. There was a broken sand dollar, a handprint mold from Michael when he was five, and, on top of it all, an empty picture frame with a few orange Xs drawn on the glass like one of the boys had gotten to it with a crayon. Two books were tucked along the side, a diet and nutrition guide and an ancient-looking copy of The Alchemist. I also found old gloves, a few disintegrating dried flowers, and a wine-colored scarf with gold threads woven through the sheer.
By the time I reached the bottom of the box, I had a stack of photos next to me and I’d discovered exactly nothing that meant anything. Most of the photos were from her preteen years and then of her after she was married. Like a whole segment of her life went undocumented—or maybe my dad just didn’t know where those photos were. Maybe none of us would ever know.
I did my best to put everything away where I’d found it, and just when I’d pushed the box back up into the closet, I heard a door slam. I closed the closet door and ran from the room to the stairs, tripping over something in the dark. I managed to catch myself and freeze in place, listening. The small patter of one of the boys’ feet jetted across the hallway upstairs, and I released my breath.
When my heart once again found a normal rhythm, I turned on the hall light and looked around me. I found DI Mallory’s bag tipped over, a few files spilled out at my feet. And my two miracles became three. I had no idea why Mallory would leave his bag at the house, and I didn’t really care. I just didn’t want him to think I’d riffled through his things.
Which is obviously why I riffled through his things.
From the front page or so, two of the files looked to be cases dealing with theft at local galleries, both labeled UNSOLVED. The third stopped me cold. I flipped open the cover and Mr. Patel was staring back at me, smiling widely in that forced portrait kind of way—the same picture I’d seen at his funeral. It was the file. The actual file of Mr. Patel’s murder, and it had fallen directly into my lap.
I thought about the look DI Mallory gave me right before he went into the kitchen—right after he set down his bag. Had he been trying to tell me to look in it? But that was ridiculous. In no universe does one of my father’s lapdogs leave me a police file to peruse. For what? Was he going to quiz me on it later? Was he looking for my opinions?
I shooed the notion out of my head and, instead, focused on what I had in my hands. The file. And chances were, Mallory wouldn’t come back for it tonight—not after a full night of drinking at the pub. I had the file, and I had a window of time. I might have smiled my widest smile of the year as I pulled my mobile from my pocket.
File attained. When?
Sherlock responded almost immediately. ASAP.
I looked up the stairs. The boys were asleep. Dad would come home drunk and stumble into bed. No one would even know I was gone. Fine, but it has to be at your house.
He sent just a number with his next text—221. His house number, I presumed. Which meant that all this time, I was a mere eight doors down from Sherlock Holmes and I’d never known it.
The game was definitely afoot.
x x x
Lock’s house was a lot larger than mine. Maybe even two of mine put together. The entry led to a large living room on one side and an open kitchen and dinette on the other. The stairs were straight ahead. After leading me toward the kitchen, Lock made a beeline for the electric kettle sitting out on the counter. I stood dumbly in the doorway, watching as he checked under the lid and then plugged it in, pulling down two cups and tossing a tea bag in each.
“Hungry?” he asked, his back still to me.
I followed the stripes of the wallpaper up to an ornate molding and across a metal ceiling to the chain that held the pendant over the dinette. “Not really.”
I should’ve known better than to believe that he really wanted to know. I watched him set our tea mugs on a small wooden tray with a tube of biscuits and then pull a plate of sandwiches wrapped in film from the refrigerator. He must have caught me staring at the crustless triangles when he turned around, because his cheeks went a little pink as he explained, “Mother always has something made up for when guests come over.”
I followed him to the dinette, and he waited for me to sit before placing the tray and sitting in the chair closest to mine. “You have a lot of guests?”
“No. We don’t.”
He sloshed milk into both our cups, and then scowled as he handed me mine. “I suppose I should’ve asked.”
“Do you know anyone who doesn’t take milk in their tea?”
“Mycroft.”
The mere mention of Lock’s brother brought a voice from the doorway of the kitchen. “And who is this?” It was as though he’d just materialized there—tall like Sherlock, but stockier, and with sleepy eyes that seemed to take in every detail of the room and still look like they couldn’t be bothered about what they saw. Just then, his eyes were turned on me. I couldn’t help but stare back. I wasn’t entirely sure he wasn’t some shadowy apparition. I hadn’t heard the front door open or someone coming down the stairs.
“Mori, this is my brother, Mycroft Holmes.”
“Mori? And does she have a last name?”