“I spent an entire year calling you, getting you out of that farmhouse, making sure you went to work. I was there for you, worrying about you—cleaning up the mess he made. So do not tell me I don’t get to have a reaction when he whispers in your ear—”
Lizzie put her hand up to the woman’s face. “Done. We’re done here. I’ll see you in the morning.”
Marching off, she cursed under her breath the entire way down to her car, and after she got her laptop, she f-bombed the long way back to the house. Deliberately avoiding the kitchen and the conservatory—because she didn’t want to run into Greta as the woman packed up—she entered through the library, and without thinking, headed for the hallway that led to the staff stairs and the kitchen. She didn’t get far. Just as she rounded the corner, she was stopped by two police officers—and that was when she saw the body on a rolling stretcher.
Rosalinda Freeland’s remains had been placed in a white bag with a five-foot zipper that had mercifully been pulled closed.
“Ma’am,” one of the officers said, “I’m going to have to ask you to step aside.”
“Yes, yes, sorry.” Ducking her eyes and swallowing her nausea, she wheeled around. Tried not to think about what had happened.
Failed.
She’d given her name to the police, just like the rest of the staff had, and provided a brief statement of where she’d been all morning as well as over the past few days. When asked about the controller, she hadn’t had much to offer. She hadn’t known Rosalinda any better than anyone had; the woman had kept to herself and her bill processing and that was that.
Lizzie wasn’t even sure if there were any family to notify.
Using the main staircase was a violation of that Easterly etiquette, but considering there was a coroner’s van parked out front and a crime scene down that staff hall, she was confident in letting go of business as usual. Up on the second floor, she made her way over the pale runner, passing by the oil paintings and the occasionals that gleamed with age and superior craftsmanship.
As she came up to Lane’s door, she couldn’t remember the last time she and Greta had fought about anything. God, she wanted to call the woman and … but what could she say?
Drop the laptop off and leave, she told herself. That’s it.
Lizzie knocked on the door. “Lane?”
“Come in.”
Pushing her way into the bedroom, she found him standing at the windows, one foot planted on the sill, his forearm braced on his raised knee. He didn’t turn and acknowledge her. Didn’t say anything else.
“Lane?” She glanced around. No one was with him. “Listen, I’ll just leave it—”
“I need your help.”
Taking a deep breath, she said, “Okay.”
But he stayed silent as he stared out at the garden. And God help her, it was impossible not to run her eyes over him. She told herself she was looking for signs of strain—that she wasn’t measuring his muscular shoulders. The short hair at the base of his neck. The biceps that had curled up and were straining the short sleeves of his polo shirt.
He’d changed clothes since she’d seen him last. Had taken a shower, too—she could smell the shampoo, the aftershave.
“I’m sorry about Rosalinda,” she whispered. “What a shock.”
“Hmm.”
“Who found her?”
“I did.”
Lizzie closed her eyes and hugged the laptop to her chest. “Oh, God.”
Abruptly, he put his hand into the front pocket of his slacks and took something out. “Will you stay with me while I open this?”
“What is it?”
“Something she left behind.” He showed her a black USB drive. “I found it on her desk.”
“Is it a … suicide note?”
“I don’t think so.” He sat down on the bed and nodded at her laptop. “Do you mind if I …?”
“Oh, yes.” She joined him, flipping open the Lenovo and hitting the power button. “I have Microsoft Office so … yeah. Word documents are no problem.”
“I don’t think that’s what it is.”
Signing in, she passed the computer over to him. “Here.”
He pushed the drive in and waited. When the screen flashed a variety of options, he hit “open files.”
There was only one on the drive, and it was marked “William-Baldwine.”
Lizzie rubbed her eyebrow with her thumb. “Are you sure you want me to see this?”
“I’m sure I can’t look at it without you here.”
Lizzie found herself reaching up and resting her hand on his shoulder. “I’m not going to leave you.”
For some reason, she thought of that peach lingerie she’d found behind his father’s bed. Hardly something that Rosalinda would wear—a lighter tone of gray was the closest the controller had ever come to whoopin’ it up on the wardrobe front. Then again, who knew what the woman had underneath all those proper skirts and jackets?
Lane clicked on the file and Lizzie was aware of her heart pounding like she’d run a full-tilt mile.
And he was right. It wasn’t some kind of love letter or a suicide note. It was a spreadsheet full of columns of numbers and dates and short descriptions that Lizzie was too far away from the screen to read.