“You were right. He’s still under charges, but his lawyers are using the similarities between this latest case and the previous ones to apply for your father’s release on police to court bail. If everything goes smoothly for them, he’ll be out by the end of the week.”
Three days. I had three days to make my plans. Three days to make myself ready. And that started with Sherlock.
“Thank you for the information. I’ll be in touch.”
As I ended the call, I noticed Lock starting to walk down the street toward my house.
“Lock, what are you doing?”
“Your door is open,” he said. After he’d taken a few long strides down the sidewalk, he looked back at me. “Do you think one of your brothers forgot to lock up?”
“I was the last one out. I know I locked it.”
We looked at each other, then ran down the street to the house. The door didn’t seem to be damaged, which meant a key had been used. I pulled Sherlock back before he started up the steps of my stoop.
“That call was from Evan. My father’s getting out at the end of the week. What if he sent one of his thugs ahead of him? He’s the only other person who has a key. It would probably be with his personal affects.”
Lock paused a moment. “Umbrella still by the door?”
I nodded. “In the stand, but probably just the old-fashioned long one.”
“That’s exactly the one I need.”
We crept up the steps to the gaping front door. Without stepping inside, Lock reached around the doorjamb for the umbrella. Weapon in hand, he stood taller and surveyed the entry.
When he didn’t move, I moved up next to him in the doorway and almost choked on the smell of fresh paint.
The place was trashed. All the bedding from Alice’s bed had been torn and was strewn about, so that ripped fragments of her sheets peppered even the stairs. It appeared the bedding from upstairs fared no better. Sheets and duvets as well as cotton batting and stray feathers were everywhere, up and down the stairs, hanging over the banisters, in and out of the kitchen and out the gaping open French doors to the back patio.
But worse, someone had pulled the full-length mirror from my room and tossed it down the stairs to shatter across the front entry. Book covers had been torn from their pages and thrown everywhere. And the paint smell—messages were spray-painted all over the walls and even up the steps. Red paint that dripped down from the corners of the letters like blood.
CONFESS, the blood said.
MURDERESS . . .
I KNOW YOU DID IT. . . .
And across the door to Alice’s room, the blood threatened, CONFESS OR DIE. I walked closer and touched a paint drop that stained my finger. Still fresh.
Lock moved me behind him, as if he was going to protect me with an umbrella. So I decided to arm myself as well, and retrieved a golf club from the floor. Annoyingly, I held it between my hands as if I were at another of Lock’s Bartitsu practices. Evidently, my body was going to instinctively wield any sticklike object in that fashion from now on.
We could plainly see that no one was in there, but still Lock made us walk around the center table and check behind the door. We walked the rest of the rooms in the house and found them similarly empty. Lock seemed almost disappointed when he slid the umbrella back into the stand, but he immediately steepled his fingers and stared at the ground, chasing his thoughts.
I caught myself watching him fondly. His eyes were the brightest blue just then, filled with clues and possibilities. He was in his element, and something about that broke my heart. But I didn’t want him to continue on this case of mine. Or, more accurately, I couldn’t allow it. My father’s impending release was all that mattered from here forward, and Sherlock was sure to either distract me from what I had to do, or attempt to thwart it. Either way, I couldn’t afford to have him near me for a while. And it had to start now. I’d run out of time.
I set the golf club up against the banister and turned toward Sherlock. “You can go.”
Only his eyes shifted when he looked at me. “If you think you’re staying here alone after this—”
“Whoever it was is gone. They didn’t damage the door, just picked the lock, probably. I have a bolt lock no one can get through, even with the key.” I paused too long and he started to argue, but I cut him off. “I need you to go.”
He fought away an exasperation that seemed to take his words, but managed to ask, “Why?”
I ignored him and stepped gingerly toward the door, trying to avoid the glass of the mirror.
His anger was evident when his next question burst forth. “Why am I leaving you with this mess all alone in a house that’s been broken into?”
“Because my father’s getting out of prison at the end of the week.” I gathered all my strength and looked up at him. My expression must have been adequately cold, because he dropped his hands and stood up taller.
“Don’t do this.” His face went completely blank, almost as if he were mimicking my coldness. But I knew better. I knew he was afraid.
So I pretended he hadn’t said a word. “And I need time to prepare.”