Chapter 1 - The Man in the Foyer
Both men stopped.
The man in front looked at the fireplace poker.
Then he looked at me.
His expression did not change.
That somehow made everything worse.
The larger man behind him slowly moved one hand toward the inside of his coat.
“Don’t,” I said.
He froze.
I tightened both hands around the poker.
“I already called security.”
That was a lie.
My phone was charging on the kitchen counter beside a half-eaten piece of cinnamon toast.
The first man glanced toward the security panel.
“No, you didn’t.”
His voice was calm.
Deep.
Almost conversational.
I hated that immediately.
“You don’t know that.”
“I know the panel hasn’t transmitted an emergency signal.”
I stared at him.
He stared back.
The larger man cleared his throat.
“Boss.”
One word.
My stomach dropped.
Boss.
The first man slowly removed his wet black coat.
Underneath was a charcoal suit that probably cost more than my car.
He handed the coat to the man behind him without breaking eye contact with me.
“Who are you?”
I raised the poker another inch.
“I was about to ask you the same thing.”
Something flickered in his face.
Not anger.
Amusement.
That annoyed me even more.
“This is my house.”
I blinked.
Rain struck the windows.
The grandfather clock near the staircase ticked loudly enough to become insulting.
Then I looked at his face again.
Black hair.
Sharp cheekbones.
Dark eyes.
A faint scar near his right eyebrow.
I had seen that face before.
Not often.
Dominic Caruso hated photographs.
But Aunt Rosa kept one framed picture of him inside the upstairs library.
Oh.
Oh, no.
I lowered the fireplace poker approximately three inches.
“You’re Dominic.”
The larger man coughed into his fist.
Dominic’s mouth moved slightly.
“Yes.”
I lowered the poker the rest of the way.
“Your aunt said Friday.”
“It is Wednesday.”
“I’m aware.”
“You came through the side entrance.”
“It belongs to me.”
“At midnight.”
“It still belongs to me at midnight.”
I looked down at myself.
Pink satin robe.
Floral pajama pants.
Bare feet.
Weaponized fireplace equipment.
Fantastic.
“I can explain.”
Dominic looked past me.
His eyes traveled across the foyer.
That was when I remembered the other problem.
The console table had been moved.
Two paintings had been rehung.
The nineteenth-century bench was no longer beneath the staircase.
The enormous Persian runner had been rolled up because rainwater had leaked beneath the east door.
And the bronze horse statue Dominic apparently disliked but had never bothered removing was currently standing beside a potted lemon tree.
He said nothing.
I wished he would.
Marco, as I later learned the larger man was called, looked around.
“What happened here?”
“Storm.”
I pointed at the ceiling.
“Roof leak in the east corridor.”
Then I pointed toward the dining room.
“Window seal failed.”
Then toward the staircase.
“And your heating system is designed by someone who apparently hates physics.”
Dominic slowly turned his head toward me.
“You rearranged my house.”
“I saved your floors.”
“You moved my paintings.”
“I saved those too.”
“You moved the Bellini cabinet.”
“It was sitting directly beneath a leak.”
“That cabinet weighs four hundred pounds.”
“I had help.”
“From whom?”
“The housekeepers.”
“At midnight?”
“Earlier.”
Marco was clearly trying not to smile.
Dominic walked into the foyer.
I stepped aside.
He passed me without another word.
Then he stopped beneath the main staircase.
His gaze lifted toward the long gallery wall.
I watched his expression change.
Barely.
But enough.
There had been seven portraits on that wall when I arrived.
Now there were six.
Dominic stared at the empty space.
His shoulders became rigid.
“Where is it?”
I already knew which painting he meant.
“The woman in the blue dress?”
He turned.
His voice lost every trace of amusement.
“Where is that portrait?”
“In the restoration room.”
“Why?”
“The lower corner of the frame was damp.”
Dominic crossed the foyer toward me.
Marco straightened.
I did not move.
“The portrait has hung there for thirty-one years.”
“And the wall behind it is wet.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
“No one touches that portrait.”
“I did.”
His jaw tightened.
I could feel the air in the foyer change.
Then he said something strangely quiet.
“That was my mother.”
I looked toward the empty rectangle on the wall.
Suddenly the painting felt different.
“I’m sorry.”
Dominic did not answer.
He walked toward the bare wall.
His fingers touched the faded wallpaper where the frame had been.
Then he stopped.
I remembered what I had noticed earlier that afternoon.
The wall had sounded wrong.
I swallowed.
“There’s something else.”
Dominic looked at me.
“What?”
“When I removed the frame, I checked for moisture damage.”
I walked closer.
Then I lifted one hand and knocked against the plaster.
Solid.
I moved six inches to the left.
Knock.
Solid.
Then higher.
Knock.
Hollow.
Marco stepped forward.
Dominic’s face became unreadable.
I knocked again.
The sound echoed behind the wall.
There was space back there.
A lot of it.
Dominic stared at the wall that had held his mother’s portrait for thirty-one years.
May you like
Then he whispered,
“There is no room behind this wall.”
