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CORA WANDERED THE CITY.
It was glorious.
London was everything she could have ever imagined.
The Thames might not sparkle, and the murky waters seemed a strange mixture of gray and brown, neither color a traditional choice for rivers, but Cora still felt awe at the wide river that divided the city. She strolled over Tower Bridge, imagining the ships and shore boats that had filled it for centuries. She ambled beside the river until she came to the Parliament buildings. The sky turned golden as the sun toppled downward, casting the buildings in a tangerine and rose colored glow.
She inhaled.
Her first day at her new home may have been unideal, but there was plenty here to enjoy.
She felt anonymous. No crew members would send her pitying glances, aware she was not excelling in her position, and no other actors and actresses would smile at her smugly, aware they were succeeding over someone who’d been in the business for longer.
No one recognized her.
Men and women in heavy overcoats marched over the streets, toward the tube station. Work must have ended.
Archibald looked at her curiously from time to time, and she realized this was the longest walk she’d given him.
“I’m sorry,” she murmured, reaching down to pet him. “You must be tired. I’m just not eager to return home.”
She gathered him in her arms, worried someone in the swarm of people leaving the Houses of Parliament might step on him, and searched for a black cab. She didn’t think Archibald was ready for the tube yet. He’d had sufficient adventures.
The black cab was comfortable, but a knot in her stomach that could not be attributed to hunger grew as the cab inched toward Bloomsbury. She pulled Archibald onto her lap. At least he seemed to find the ride enjoyable and wagged his tail.
Finally, the cab stopped. She paid the driver and exited the cab.
Nightfall had not improved the area. A steady wind swept against her back. The leafy square seemed menacing, as if evil lurked behind the large trees.
Her heart pounded in her chest.
Perhaps I imagined the body. Perhaps I imagined he was dead.
She tried to quell her earlier protestations.
Music sounded from an open window. Evidently Rollo and Lionel were having a party. She strode up the steps, grateful for the upbeat tempo of the music that seemed distant from death, though even the joyous strains couldn’t keep her heart from ratcheting.
Perhaps I should have accepted Veronica’s offer.
She almost considered leaving straight away, but instead she inhaled and marched resolutely up the steps.
No one wanted her dead, and she did have Archibald. He might be small, but an intruder who entered the room in the dark wouldn’t know that. He’d only hear Archibald’s bark, which was considerable.
She strode past Rollo’s and Lionel’s apartment and up the stairs to her own.
This was her home.
She wasn’t going to allow anyone to make her feel unwanted.
She removed her key, thrust it inside the keyhole, and opened the door sharply.
There.
She’d done it.
Nothing to be scared of.
Obviously.
She ignored the rapid beat of her heart and moved her hand toward the light switch. Her skin bristled, as if some animal instinct in her was aware of something her mind was not.
Someone’s here.
She jerked her hand back and refrained from turning on the light switch.
Archibald trotted to the next room.
He didn’t bark.
Shouldn’t he be barking?
I’m being foolish.
She closed the door quietly. Her heart beat quickened, and she grabbed the frying pan from the kitchen and tiptoed after Archibald. She had the definite sense she was being ridiculous, but it didn’t matter. Only her safety, and Archibald’s, mattered.
She moved into the room, making out the dark outline of the bed.
There didn’t seem to be a person in it. Her limbs were still stiff, and she tightened her grip on the handle of the frying pan. She seemed to sense another person. The murderer? Or some demonic ghost? Perhaps a serial killer, someone intent on murdering everyone who deigned to enter this room?
The idea sounded ridiculous in her mind, but tension still swept through her.
“Do you always enter this room with a frying pan in your hand?” A cool voice broke through the darkness.
The voice should have terrified her.
This was everything she’d feared.
Someone had broken into the room.
But she recognized the voice at once.
She’d heard it for years. Most people had heard it for years. The voice was silky, smooth and American.
“Pop?” she squeaked.
“Hi sweetie,” her father said. “Why don’t you turn on the light?”
“You could have turned it on,” Cora said.
“I was taking a nap,” Pop said casually. “This time difference is brutal.”
“What are you doing here, Pop? And how did you get inside?”
Her father narrowed her eyes. “You should be glad I’m here. And I thought I taught you better manners on how to greet a guest.”
Cora’s knees wobbled, and she sank onto the bed. “I am glad to see you.”
“Good.” Pop beamed. “That’s more like it, honey bunny.”
Pop’s gaze dropped to the frying pan in Cora’s hand. “You know, if you’re not adapting well to living on your own, you can always move back. I’m sure we could find you another job in Hollywood. I have many friends.”
Cora shook her head. “No, thank you.”
Archibald lay down on the floor, curled beside Cora’s feet, as if to emphasize that Cora was not going anywhere.
“You’d tell me if you were in trouble?” Pop asked carefully.
Cora stiffened.
What would Pop say if she confessed she’d thought she’d discovered a murder? In this very room? Would he insist she leave?
He’d never seemed overly burdened by fatherly instincts.
“I thought I saw something bad,” Cora confessed.
“Oh.” Pop watched her intently.
More intently than she would have anticipated.
Pop did seem warier than he’d been in Hollywood. He certainly had heightened his security.
“But I suppose I was mistaken,” Cora said quickly. “So I’m just...on edge.”
Pop nodded. “Moving is difficult.”
Cora nodded at the platitude.
“So no one is after you?” Pop gave her a hard stare, as if assessing her face for revealing flinches.
“What? Nonsense.”
“Good.” Pop’s shoulders relaxed. “Just making certain.”