3
Matt went off to read in a “less freaky location.” Before she did anything else, Christine examined everything in the office. She even asked Steve to come in and point out which things had been Tara’s, but he refused, saying he wasn’t going to cross Charlie.
So she did it herself. The usual opera posters hung on the walls, along with black-and-white shots of famous patrons and opera divas, signed with black Sharpie marker to people who weren’t Tara. The desk held an assortment of pens, some sticky notes with phone numbers and obscure reminders that must have meant something to her. The cops would have taken anything that seemed to be a clue, she supposed, so these must be detritus. Though the drawer held empty file folders, there were no actual papers, so the police must have taken some stuff.
Tara had likely had a laptop, too. Christine’s fingers itched to get into that.
Sanchez would tell her to go to hell.
No, anything useful in the desk the cops would already have. Methodically, she went through the bookcase, checking the texts on musical theater, the history of costume design, Georgia O’Keeffe’s biography, landscapes of New Mexico.
Maybe Tara had just been in the wrong place at the wrong time, worth killing just to bring Christine to the opera house. But the fact that Tara, too, had been working on the inventory just seemed too coincidental. Especially if Carla had really hidden the Angel’s Hand.
Tara had known something. “Come on, Tara,” she muttered under her breath, “If death is just a doorway into another world, would you peek back in here and give me a stinking clue?”
“Who are you talking to?”
She shrieked and jumped a foot, her heart slamming into her throat. Charlie stood in the doorway, a strange look on his weathered face. She gazed pointedly at the keys in his hand. He tucked them in his pocket.
“Sorry—didn’t know anyone was in here,” he said, not sounding sorry at all.
So he opens the door as quietly as he can?
“Did you need something, Charlie?”
“Yeah, the inventory.”
“Matt has it. I’m not sure where he got to, though.”
Charlie gave a half nod, his bushy brows lowering. “What about you—looking for a book?”
She shrugged. “Doing a little research.”
“Well, the props guys could sure use some help if you’re done collecting pay for doing nothing.”
There was a time that dig would have stung. Now it just made her mad. Charlie knew full well that being kept away from her job wasn’t her idea. So she made herself smile, mentally giving him the finger. “Sure enough! I’ll be out there in a few.”
“Sooner rather than later would be nice.”
“Uh-huh. You might look for Matt and the notebook out on the loading dock.”
He hovered in the doorway, clearly not wanting to leave her in there. She stood in front of the bookcase, unwilling to back down.
“Fine,” he finally muttered.
“Close the door, would you?” She flinched when he slammed it. A loose heating vent screen over the door rattled, a screw falling to the floor and rolling across to her feet. In the ensuing silence, she heard her own accelerating breathing. And music, echoing through the opera house. Human voices merging with that unearthly golden melody and the scent of roses.
She pulled over her rolling chair and climbed up. Not able to see in, she felt around the dusty space, trying not to picture spiders. Her fingertips brushed something. Paper? Stretching up, she got a grip on it and slid it out. A little spiral notebook, with a neatly printed TARA SMITH on the cover.
“Thank you, Tara,” she breathed.
Just then the door swooped open, hitting the chair, which spun away on its oiled wheels. The notebook flew out of her hands and she grabbed at the vent and the top of the door, her stomach dropping as her feet went with the chair and she fell, the stabbing terror of her dreams catching up with her.
Strong hands grabbed her—but they were the wrong ones.
“What the hell are you doing, Christy?” Roman’s angry face filled her vision and she wrenched herself away from him.
“Me? What the hell are you doing here?”
Roman grinned viciously, and a chill of terror shot down her spine. “Looking for you. I hear your father’s in town. I hope you can explain why you so rudely vanished from the Compound last night. We were frantic about you. Not very considerate of you at all.”
“Yes, well—my father called and said he was on his way. I didn’t want to wake anyone, so I left as quietly as I could and called a, um, cab.”
“And here I thought I had your phone in my pocket. I forgot to give it back to you.” His eyes had gone that flat black. The Sanclaros are insane.
“It was in my room.” She shrugged in nonchalance. “I figured you left it there for me.”
She would not give up Angie. Hopefully she’d escaped the punishment she’d feared.
“What were you doing up on that chair, sweet girl?” Roman switched subjects rapidly, as if hoping to catch her off guard, his gaze swinging up to the open vent and speculatively back to her.
Where had Tara’s notepad landed?
“The vent cover was loose.”
The red cover of the notepad peeked out from under her desk. She swooped down and snagged it.
“What do you have there?” Roman looked predatory, and she shoved it in her back jeans pocket.
“Notes. I need to get to work here.” She ducked past him into the hallway.
“I’d be interested to see your notes—get to know my fiancée better. Maybe I’ll discover why she leaves my home in the middle of the night and then avoids my calls and texts.”
She wanted to fling the awful ring at him and shout that she wasn’t, would never be his fiancée, much less his wife. Damn that she needed the ring still. So she did her best to smile, if only for the benefit of her uniformed escort, watching their exchange with great interest.
“I already told you why.”
“I think you’re lying.”
“You’re free to think anything you want to. My father is in town and wanted to discuss my engagement.” She couldn’t help throwing that out there. A little dare.
Roman’s gaze turned speculative. “So that’s what he’s up to.”
Go, Dad! Sounded as if her father hadn’t wasted any time smoking out the Sanclaros.
“Up to?” She raised her eyebrows and tried to look innocently casual even as Tara’s little red notebook burned a hole in her pocket.
“This cocktail party on the dock tonight is for all the talent and opera staff, but we’re all invited.”
“Sounds pretty straightforward to me.”
“You listen to me, sweet girl.” He hissed the endearment and flexed his fingers, glancing at the cops and away. “All of this is bigger than you are. You’re only a tool. And, if you’re lucky, you’ll enjoy it. But I can make sure you don’t, too.”
It took all her resolve, but she cast her eyes down, trying to appear meek. Funny that she didn’t feel afraid now. Annoying, too, because showing a little fear would be useful.
“Yes, Roman.”
He picked up her left hand and kissed the ring. “That’s my good girl. See how easy it is for you, if you think only about pleasing me?” He squeezed her hand, hard enough that she gasped. Arrogant ass, to threaten and intimidate her while the cops watched. “This is a new beginning for the Sanclaros. You and I will lead the family into a bright new future, sweet girl. Just as Angelia and Seraphina did.”
Holding her hand in the same tight grip, he cupped the back of her neck, his fingers vising the tendons there so she couldn’t turn her head. He kissed her, hard, possessively and without the least amount of affection. He might as well have struck her across the face again.
“Until tonight.” He smiled. “I’ll send a dress over for you to wear. There will be photographers.”