Chapter Twenty-Three

He was ten minutes late. Kate dabbed perfume on her throat and wrists, and tried to ignore the jittery feeling in her stomach. She was going on a date. Small talk, good food, wine. And she liked him. So why was her heart pounding? Kate pressed a hand to her side and took a deep breath. It didn’t help.

The sound of an interweaving melody drifted down from the room above. A deep, swelling vibrato-filled tone of a solo violin. Bach, one of Great-aunt Roselyn’s favorites.

Elaina’s voice, raised in anger, came from somewhere deeper in the house. “Do you have to keep saying it?”

“That’s what I am.” Taut control strained Ian’s voice.

“Just dropping by like always. Here now, gone tomorrow. I’m tired of it. I’d rather have you than some postcard.”

Kate set the bottle down, was tempted to close the door. But then she might not hear the doorbell.

“Then ask me to stay!” It sounded like a challenge. The argument was getting louder.

“You wouldn’t stay, even if I asked.” Elaina’s voice carried through the walls. A timer beeped. What were they cooking again? Some kind of pasta.

“Do you want me to stop travelling? To stay here, with you?”

“You know that wouldn’t work. You wouldn’t be satisfied. It wouldn’t be enough.”

Where was her compact mirror? Ah, there, glint of silver, pushed to the edge of the dresser. Kate slid it into her purse, checked for her lip balm in the pocket. A book. She’d left the fictional detective shaking raindrops from his hat. Kate hesitated, then slid the book into her purse. There was room. Right. She was ready now.

“What about you? Could you survive being stuck with one guy for once? I might hold you back.”

A silence followed. “That was low.”

Sound of a chair scraping back. “You’re right. I’m sorry.” A pause. “Then come with me.”

“Ian…”

Kate picked up her purse, started down the hall, trying to make her steps heavy and loud. Her heels clicked across the floor.

“Think about the adventure. God, it’s incredible the things you can see, discover.” Excitement throbbed in Ian’s voice. Kate could picture him gesturing as he described, tearing down the kitchen walls with his words, revealing exotic scenes, color, sound. “The smells of bazaars. Browsing through dried fruit, kites, and fireworks. The rhythm of foreign voices. The surprise of encountering old words in new places. The way other climates feel on your skin, the magic in other religions, other beliefs. The aroma of alien flowers beneath your feet when you walk across a deserted hill. Imagine the scenes you could paint. Something new everywhere you turn.”

“That isn’t me, Ian.”

“So what are we left with?” Ian asked quietly.

“You’re the only man I’ve ever met who I’ve always wanted to say yes to.”

“Isn’t that enough?”

“It should be, but we both know it isn’t.”

Kate stepped past the kitchen door. They spun and glared at her. Elaina’s eyes shone unnaturally bright. “I’m about to leave,” Kate said.

Elaina pushed both hands through her mass of hair. “Let me know what the restaurant’s like.” She turned to the stove, reached for a wooden spoon, and stirred the simmering contents of the pot. The scent of tomato and basil intensified, steam rising.

Ian avoided Kate’s eyes. He cleared his throat. Pinched the bridge of his nose with thumb and finger. Then he let out a breath and smiled at her. “Have a good time.”

Kate wondered how long it would be before Ian grabbed his duffel bag and walked out the door. “Thanks.”

Elaina tasted the sauce. She frowned. “I don’t know. It’s missing something.”

“Probably salt,” Ian said dryly.

If looks could kill, Ian would be a dead man. “Here, Kate, what do you think?”

The sauce bubbled invitingly. Avoiding the bay leaf, Kate dipped a spoon beneath the surface, lifted it to her mouth. Heat, punch of chili powder, sweetness of onion and tomatoes, rich undertone of red wine. “Oregano, maybe?”

“That’s what I thought. You’ve got sauce on your top now, by the way.”

Sure enough, there was a smattering of drops on her blouse, dark against the purple silk. “Oh, blast!” Paper towel. Water ran over her fingers as she held a piece under the tap, dabbed at the stains with it.

Elaina selected a jar from the spice rack, looked over. “I think you’re making it worse.”

The stains, small before, were now one large, damp spot. Impossible to miss. Wet silk cold against her skin.

The doorbell chimed.

“He’s here.” Ian was grinning. “Want me to get it? Give you time to deal with that?”

“I’ll do it.” Kate blotted at the silk one more time, as she walked through the entrance. Took a breath, tried to ignore the flush heating her cheeks, and opened the door.

Gary was looking the other way. Toward the trees and the setting sun, orange sky above the branches, then clouds. There were bruises beneath his eyes. Pale line of that old scar beneath a day’s worth of stubble. A muscle jumped in his jaw. He looked exhausted, Kate thought. He turned to her and smiled. “Hi. Sorry I’m late.”

Kate tugged the fabric away from her skin. “Actually, I’m not ready yet. The kitchen’s straight through there.” Kate turned to point out the way, and saw Elaina leaning against the doorframe, watching with interest.

Spotted, Elaina wriggled her fingers at them. “You must be Gary.”

For one moment, Gary seemed to hesitate. Then he stepped into the house. “Yes, I am.” Music carried down the stairs, a violin throbbing on the lowest string, rising with an upward inflection. Building note upon note.

“This is Elaina,” Kate explained. “She lives here, too. And the man carrying plates to the table behind her is Ian, her boyfriend. Have a seat. I won’t be long.”

Gary looked amused. “Sure. Take your time.”

“Come in. We won’t bite.” Elaina ushered Gary into the kitchen ahead of her. She sent one more glance to Kate, eyebrows raised. Pressed a hand to her heart and pretended to swoon against the doorframe.

Kate stifled a laugh as she hurried down the hall. Stripped off the blouse in her room. What could she wear instead? The red jumper. Not as classy as the blouse, but it would have to do. Kate tugged it over her head. Quick glance in the mirror. Black jeans, high heels. At least it was comfy.

Laughter from the kitchen. Kate followed the sound.

Gary was sitting on one of the chairs with Isra on his lap. The cat was sprawled on her back, shameless as a kitten, pawing at a button on his shirt. Warmth of the stove filled the room. One plate pushed aside to make space for a large book, open on the table in front of Gary. Black cover, unlined sheets, no text. Streak of green along the edge. Kate caught the thick mark of charcoal as Gary turned pages, bold sweep of pastel. Elaina’s sketchbook.

“He says,” Ian leaned across the table, hands gesturing, “‘it’s the forks, I tell you.’ Only I thought he said something entirely different. Next thing I know, the plane is boarding, and guess who’s sitting in the seat next to mine.” Expression of horror on his face. More laughter.

Gary glanced up, eyes catching hers. “You look pretty.”

The sudden skip to her heart caught Kate off guard. “Thanks.” She looked over Gary’s shoulder at the book. The paper was heavy, textured.

“These are good.” Gary turned the page. “Do you sell?”

“Some. Mostly paintings.” Elaina shrugged. “Not enough.”

“There’s not enough that you part with,” Ian cut in. “She gets attached to her work.”

Isra shifted, turned, suddenly sat upright and alert, paws tense. Gary stroked a hand down her back, without taking his eyes off the sketch.

The image was laden with details. The pub from the point of view of the bartender, done in blue ball-point pen. Kate could see the ornamentation on the wood paneling, the photographs on the back wall, the faint smears on the surface of the bar. Two men leaning against the counter, staring into their drinks, into the distance. The booths were full.

Kate almost missed him.

In the left-hand corner of the sketch at a small table was Mr. Wendell. Elaina had captured the bleary expression, the languorous slouch, the surprisingly observant gaze. A dark stain swelled the pen lines. “What’s that? Blood?”

Gary looked up. “It doesn’t look like blood to me.” Easy curve to his mouth, but for one second, Kate thought she saw something else, something cold and hard beneath that relaxed expression. Something that said danger.

“Where?” Ian leaned closer. “That? My guess is it’s the remains of a sultry Bordeaux with a velvet finish.”

“You’d be right about that,” Elaina said.

Ian tapped the sketch with one finger. “Who’s that?”

Elaina moved closer to get a better look. Gary pushed his chair back, gave her space.

“Derek Wendell. Why?”

Ian took the book, held it beneath the light. The lines seemed to leap from the page, dark against cream. Red smear fading to brown, looking less and less like wine. “He’s the spitting image of someone I ran into in Dublin. His hair was longer and he wore glasses. He had this soft, nasal voice that made you want to punch him. He was bland and blended into the crowd, but gave you the impression of being a total eejit. ‘Course, then you felt like an ass for thinking it.”

Elaina laughed. “That sounds like Wendell.”

“He’d been pumping a friend of mine for information. Ferreting but real polite like, so you wouldn’t even notice what he was up to until he got what he wanted.”

“What happened?” Gary asked. Isra leapt to the floor, landing with a soft pad of feet.

Ian shrugged. “One day, he disappeared.”

“Let me guess,” Kate said, “without a clue?” She was getting used to Ian’s stories, his flair for drama.

“Yeah. Thing is, this guy I knew? His name was Darren Thatcher.”

“Well, then.” Elaina went to the stove, took the pot off the heat. “It couldn’t have been him, right? It’s just a sketch, Ian.” Irritation in her voice, seeping through again.

“You’re probably right.” Ian shrugged, backed down, as though he saw another argument coming and wanted to avoid it.

Gary leaned back in his chair. “Isn’t everyone supposed to have a double somewhere in the world? Maybe Darren Thatcher was his.”

Seeing Elaina drain the pasta in the sink reminded Kate that she was hungry and it could be a long time yet before she got food. “We should probably get going, Gary.”

“Right.” He stood. “It was nice meeting both of you.”

“Likewise.” Behind Gary’s back, Elaina shot Kate a wink and a wicked grin.

Kate led the way to the door. Gary helped her into her coat, and she felt his fingers brush the nape of her neck, warm against her skin.

****

That sketch—it caught him off guard.

From their table, Gary had a clear view of the rest of the room. Senses on overdrive, picking up the details. White tablecloths, crisp fold lines. Her skin like cream against the red top. Carafes set dead center, lemon slices floating in water. Waiters carrying on a conversation in French as they moved between tables. He knew it was leftover adrenaline, spiking his blood. Making it hard to concentrate. “Your bookstore could use a better lock.”

“What’s wrong with the one I have?”

“For one thing, it won’t take a pick hook and screw driver to get past it.”

“So far, no one has tried.” Kate took another bite of her coq au vin, and closed her eyes on a hum of pleasure. “Mmm, this is incredible.”

He’d have to thank Percival for giving him the name of the restaurant. “I’m glad you like it.”

“Is that why you started Fenris Securities?” Kate asked. “To keep people safe?”

“People are hard to protect.” Only hours ago, he told Adriana’s father he’d never forget. Now he was sitting across the table from Kate, watching candlelight flicker across her face. Aroma of veal, shallots and parsley rising from the blanquette de veau on his plate. “Tell people to take precautions, they start to feel trapped, do the opposite.” Go to a museum instead, to look at a cabinet. “Our focus is on property, things.”

“Like my bookstore.” Kate smiled. “I thought this was a date, not a sales pitch.”

“Sorry, an old habit.” He forced himself to relax.

“Looking for weaknesses?” Kate teased. She reached for a piece of bread, broke it in half.

Gary couldn’t help smiling back. “Yes.”

“What did you do before Fenris Securities?”

“This and that.” Give a little, hold more back. Don’t reveal too much. “I served with the Metropolitan Police Force, years ago. A probationary constable.”

“Really? I can’t picture you as a cop.”

Gary laughed, felt some of the tension start to ease. “Neither could I. It didn’t last. I liked the puzzles, unravelling lies, but I hated the rules. The regulations did more to hinder justice than anything else. What about you? What brought you to England? Don’t look so surprised. Your accent gives you away.”

“So I haven’t picked up that British eloquence yet.”

“Canada?”

“Toronto.” Kate thought for a moment. “I wanted a change. I missed the house. And I get to spend time with my great-aunt.”

“Roselyn Marsh.”

Confused. “How did you—”

A mistake. He was starting to lose track of what Kate had said and what he already knew. “It’s the oldest house in Willowsend.” Half-truths were safer than a lie. “There was an article about it in the paper once.” He’d used it for research, when he was trying to figure out why Wendell had picked that house, that town. Gary only hoped they had mentioned her name.

“That’s right, she showed me the article.” The guarded expression in Kate’s eyes lifted.

“The article mentioned something about a tragedy that took place in the orchard. Decades ago now.”

She frowned. “I don’t remember reading anything like that. What kind of a tragedy?”

“They didn’t go into details.” When he read it, he’d gotten the impression that someone had pulled strings to keep information hidden. “Probably just a clever journalist trying to hook the reader with an old mystery.”

“I’m sure that’s it. He even called it the fairy tale house.”

“Once upon a time?”

“Right.” Kate grinned. “It feels like home now. Though I still miss the snow, maple syrup and my brothers. And, yes, in that order.”

Their plates were empty. He didn’t want to leave yet. “Would you like a coffee?”

“Yes, please.”

Gary signaled to the waiter. “And a crème brûlée, two spoons.”

“Gary,” Kate said seriously, “I like you.”

“And I didn’t even have to cook.”

“Can you cook?”

“Not unless it comes in a box.”

“That’s a shame.” Kate shook her head sadly.

“One of my faults.” Their coffee arrived, steam rising from the cups.

“Ah, but admitting it shows strength of character.”

The coffee was smooth and rich. The caramelized sugar of the crème brûlée, crisp and golden.

It was as they left the car, when they were walking toward the house, crossing the grass toward the glow of stained-glass panels, when Gary realized. He never asked about Wendell. Never even thought about it. You should have taken the bullet. He could smell earth, overripe apples. Somewhere in the distance, fainter, an undertone of decay.

“So,” Kate turned to him at the door, “are you going to kiss me again?”

The jolt of desire took him by surprise.

Kate smiled, head tilted back to look up at him, hands tucked in her pockets. Ends of her hair brushing her collar.

Gary took a breath. Her scent this time, fresh and light.

“You’re hesitating.” A flicker of uncertainty crossed her face.

Gary snaked an arm around her waist, pulled her to him in one fast move that had her steadying herself, a hand against his chest. He lowered his mouth to hers. Then deepened the kiss, let himself take and take. Greed like fire in his blood, flaring to life, searing his mind blank. And still it wasn’t enough. The taste of her was intoxicating.

He stepped back, breath coming hard, though he wanted to hold on. Hands unsteady.

“You sure can kiss.” Kate’s voice was shaky.

He stopped himself from touching her again. “Good night, Kate.”

Gary watched her enter the house. And he knew he’d just made things a hell of a lot more complicated.

****

The dream closed around him.

The smell of leaf mulch, moss, and dew. The taste of ham and rye. Cold fingers, the dog a darting shape in the misty air, ranging. Quick legs coursing through long grass. Pale tendrils of wood curling onto his father’s boots. The flash of the blade, the easy slide and curve of the knife. The dog broke stride, head up, hunting the scent before leaping on.

His father’s voice. “Look at him go for that hare, boy. The muscles are what make him look alive. See the way they ripple? The definition? That’s strength. Power. Concentrate on the shape of the air around the animal. It’s the dark that matters. Look at the shadows, that’s what you want to carve away.” His father handed him the knife. “Let’s see you try.”

The animal appeared from the wood, as though it had been trapped inside, waiting for his hands to find him.

Then Gary was in a room, alone. He was choking. He couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t see.

He was wading through her blood. The room was black, the ground a pulsing burgundy sheet. The air thick.

There had to be a way out. Gary felt his way along, searching by touch. Silence so complete, it was like an absence of sound. The ground sucked at the soles of his feet. A pinprick of light in the distance. Was it real? He heard a whisper, a laugh. Loud in that void. He was too far away still, to hear, to understand what she was saying.

Darkness, denser than the rest, closing in around the edges of his vision. He fought it off. There wasn’t enough oxygen. He was losing time. Faster, keep moving. Don’t stop. He had to get to her. How long had he been walking?

Glint of silver above. A spider’s web, spun a hand’s width thick across the ceiling. Was it lower now? He still had the knife. He reached up. The web broke beneath the blade, fine as silk, setting strands floating. The gap he’d made closed over, reforming, thicker than before.

He wouldn’t make it. The walls around him were smooth, like concrete. That whisper again. Where did it come from? There were no windows, no doors.

Gary sank down, rested his back against the wall. He listened for her. There was only silence. He should have moved faster. The ripples spread around him.

The light shone, far away. In some distant part of that dark space. But he knew, no matter what he did, the blood would spread, the web would grow. Only a breath or two left.

Gary woke, hand clenched. As though he still held the knife.