EVELYN LLOYD TOOK GREAT CARE with her dress and makeup. Everything she selected bore the invisible stains of memories made bitter by lies and deception. The gown was a Dior one-off, designed for the first reception they had given after completing the renovations of Kedrick’s family castle in Wiltshire. The work had taken three years and almost four million of her dollars. They had brought in woodworkers from the Garonne region of central France, the only place they could find people still skilled in the Jacobean style of paneling. The step-in fireplace was carved from massive blocks of white Grecian marble, sculpted as close to the original sketches as they could manage in this day and age.
Her diamond-and-emerald necklace had also been a gift from Kedrick—acquired with her funds, of course. They had celebrated their ninth wedding anniversary with a weekend getaway to Paris. They had taken a suite at the Ritz and walked across the Place Vendôme to the same jewelers who had served Kedrick’s great-great-grandfather, back in the family’s heyday. That same weekend had been Kedrick’s first occasion to hear Erin Brandt sing. The young diva had lit up the Paris Opera House with a brilliance that had outshone even these fabulous gems. Evelyn fastened the necklace into place, grimacing at the bitter irony of such tainted and poisoned joy.
She gave her makeup a careful check, then crossed the foyer to Kedrick’s office. The servants all had been given the afternoon off. The apartment was uncommonly still. The only sound came from Kedrick’s sound system. She recognized the muted strains of Tchaikovsky’s tragic opera Eugene Onegin. Even here was a note of fatal correctness.
Evelyn pushed open the doors and entered the stage.
Her husband was seated behind his massive stinkwood desk. His cell phone lay open and waiting upon the leather blotter. His hair was a scattered sheath of winter wheat. His face looked ravaged with strain. He cast her a glance, then started to look away. Then it gradually registered. She stood with regal dignity, both hands holding the handles to the double doors. “Yes?”
“I came to inform you,” she said, “that this particular script will not play out as you intended.”
He sought to gather himself, but failed. “I beg your pardon?”
She started to walk over and turn off the music, but decided it suited the occasion more than silence. The final act was building now. Onegin was about to confront the utter depravity of his misdeeds. “Let me guess. You and your minions can’t locate the child.”
Awareness dawned within that burning gaze. “What are you saying?”
“You couldn’t possibly think that I would let you get away with all this. My only regret is that I did not think you capable of murder. But then, I have always sought to believe the best in you. Even when you have constantly sought to prove me wrong.”
“My dear, you are not making—”
“The authorities are seeking your Mr. Jones and that strange little German fellow as we speak.” She rose up to her full height, wishing there was some sense of satisfaction to be found in this moment. Some vindication. “And both Marcus Glenwood and Kirsten Stansted are alive.”
He took the news as he would a blow to the heart. “What?”
“I failed to protect Ms. Brandt, though heaven knows she deserved her fate as much as anyone. But as for these two, my guess is they are now sharing their suspicions with the proper authorities.”
The rage she had always known was there gradually fueled the ravaged features. “Then there is nothing to keep me from exacting my final revenge upon you.”
“Revenge for what, Kedrick? Remaining blind to your deceit for far too long?” Evelyn stepped back enough to call into the foyer, “Come here, please.”
The muscled young detective stepped in alongside her. Evelyn watched her husband descend into the dust of defeat. She then pointed to the sound system. In this production Onegin confessed to his life of misdeeds, then shot himself in the temple. “Perhaps you should consider the wisdom of your one and only love.”