One. Then three—no, it’s an eight.The numbers on the wall spell out: seven-one-eight-one. 7181. Or 1817, depending on how you read it. The year the Knox was formed? The number of bodies buried beneath it?
Suddenly, Liam stops short, and Taylor nearly bumps into him. He pivots to the right toward a frameless door she missed. Fiddling with the knob, he swings the door outward into a galley kitchen, whose bright ceiling-mounted lights and three windows make Taylor squint. She takes a deep, cleansing breath, relieved to be out of that dank hallway. As her vision adjusts, she makes out a large commercial-like kitchen, with stainless-steel food-prep areas, large refrigeration units, multiple stovetops crowned with exhaust hoods, and deep sink basins. There is a deep fryer as well, familiar to any Outer Banks local. The kitchen is empty, save for one older woman toward the back, leaning against one of the counters. A welcome aroma of garlic and onions wafts toward them.
Liam swoops his arm out in an exaggerated, somewhat obnoxious gesture. “After you, madam.”
Taylor steps through the threshold, where immediately her feet stick to the ground, as if she’s stepped on a film of maple syrup. Glancing down, she sees a sticky pad, like the one the transplant unit in the hospital uses at their entrance to capture germs on visitors’ shoes. “What the…” She hops off and glances behind her. Her boots have left a residue of light brown granuleson the sticky sheet, almost like she just tracked in sand. Was there sand in that hall they just walked through?
She points her toe out, about to test the sheet—is it really a sticky pad?—when Liam barks, “Don’t!”
He expertly sidesteps the pad as the door closes behind them. “Follow me,” he instructs, not offering any explanation, and briskly resumes walking. Taylor, thoroughly puzzled, is led through the kitchen toward the woman, who is thumbing through a magazine and chewing on a carrot. She seems older, in her sixties, and is thin and plain. Her lack of makeup and her choice of clothes—a tan, long-sleeved shirt tucked into a pair of light khakis—suggests a preference of economy. A gray cat rubs against her leg.
“New recruit here, Rose,” Liam calls out, sailing by.
Rose gazes at Taylor unflinchingly.
“Uh, hi, Rose,” Taylor offers, as she trails after Liam. They move through a set of French double doors, hastening past an elegant dining room with navy-lacquered walls, a wide carpet-runnered staircase, the foyer and apparent front entrance, and into a huge, open area that stops her in her tracks. She doesn’t know what to call this space. It’s a room, but it’smorethan a room.
There arethreerugs to demarcatethreedifferent gathering spots.Twofireplaces, one on either end. Windows fit for a giant. So many textures and furniture pieces and paintings it’s like a sensory overload. In the middle of the room is a large glass display case with a scroll that is clearly valuable in some regard. She wants to run her hand along all the sumptuous fabrics, breathe in the buttery leather couches, stare for hours at the art.
She’s never been in a room with such grandeur, such wealth. It makes Vivian’s apartment pale by comparison. For the second time that day, Taylor finds herself overcome.
This house has a pretty face, all right. Why is it completely empty, though?
“It’s a Wednesday morning,” Liam says, as if reading her mind. “Nothing ever happens here in the morning. You can have a seat here.”
She suppresses a smile. Where is “here” exactly? This sitting area ahead, or the one to the left, or—
“Mr.Wales will be with you shortly. Nice to meet you, Taaaylor.” He drops his voice slightly when he draws out her name.
“You too.” Taylor walks into the room, feeling clunky under his gaze. And then he is gone.
She takes off her coat and drapes it on the back of a mustard velvet bench in the far corner, an area that feels cozier—or perhaps more accessible—than the other parts of the room. She feels like she should walk on tippy toes to avoid creating a disturbance, the way she used to maneuver around her dad when he’d fall asleep on the couch after working late at the restaurant. Scanning the room for any cameras (none that she can see), she tugs a few times at her shirt dress to air it out; she got a little sweaty walking through that narrow hall. Then she slips off her Rolex (they will know it’s fake, for sure; it was foolish to wear it), but right as she’s tucking the watch into her pocket, Liam strolls back into the room. He raises an eyebrow, and she flushes.
Did he see her?
He casually clears a stray wineglass, and she sinks into a chair next to an oil painting. Finally, he’s gone again—for now.
Taylor looks at the painting. It shows, simply, the back of a woman. Her hair is pulled into a ponytail, and she appears to be riding a train. The scene behind her is blurred—a smear of pastel paint—she alone in focus. It is a moment in time, a still amid motion. Taylor feels strangely pulled to the image.
Did Vivian ever pause to admire this painting? Sit in this very chair? Did her mom?
“Taylor Adams,” a man says, interrupting her thoughts. He holds out his hand as he approaches, and Taylor rises. “Peter Wales.”
He is the kind of handsome that’s hard to look at. A strong, angular face; dark, gray-tinged hair neatly swept to the side; deep forehead lines that feel earned. His eyes are small and intensely blue, and Taylor wants to both stare at him and drop her gaze.
As Taylor clasps his hand, something stirs inside her. Yes, this man in front of her is older. A lot older, like maybe twice her age. But he has that timeless Hollywood kind of charm.
“Hi,” she manages to reply. “Nice to meet you.” She keeps her lips pressed together like a panini; there’s no way she’s flashing him her gap-toothed smile.
“Sit, sit,” he says, and settles into the sofa opposite Taylor. He wears a classic white collared shirt beneath a tailored pinstripe suit that must have come with a hefty price tag. “I detect a Southern drawl.” When he smiles, Taylor feels herself flush. She pushes her nail into her leg as a distraction.
“I’m from North Carolina.”
“Hope you’re planning to stay longer than Cam Newton did.”
Who?“Yeah.” She clears her throat. “I mean, yes.”
“Do you watch football?”
