“I don’t think so.”
“Embrace the chaos, Quoth. Isn’t that what you told me? Why do you hide up here in the attic anyway? There’s that whole bedroom downstairs that would fit a lot more artwork inside.”
“Bedroom?” Quoth’s voice rose an octave.
“The master suite at the end of the hall. I peeked inside when I was searching for you—”
“You didn’t go in, did you?” Quoth’s eyes were as wide as saucers.
“Of course I did. I had to check you weren’t hiding under the bed.”
Quoth leaned so close, his face hovered an inch from mine. His breath caressed my lips, and I struggled to suck in air. “What did you see?”
“Just… a bedroom. There was a four-poster bed and a some furniture covered in drop cloths. An pentagonal bathroom in the turret. Oh, and a beautiful wardrobe. I’d kill to have that room.”
“Mina, you can’t go in there again. This is serious. It—” Quoth’s plea was interrupted by a bellow from downstairs.
“Pizza’s here!”
Quoth ducked his head and made his way to the door. The spell had broken, leaving my skin flushed and my head flummoxed. I picked my way through the dark space and down the narrow staircase into the living room.
Heathcliff had already settled into his chair and lit the gas fire. Morrie pulled two tiny coffee tables together, setting all the dirty coffee cups into the corner of the room and opening out the pizza boxes. The smell of garlic and cheese hit my nostrils and my stomach rumbled. I hadn’t realized how hungry I was. Morrie and I hadn’t eaten on the train – neither of us had a suicide wish.
“I take it from your gloating smile that you won our bet?” I asked Morrie as I collected a slice of Hawaiian pizza and settled into my own chair.
“It took me all of eight minutes.” Morrie leaned back in his chair, his arms behind his head, that wicked smile playing across his face. “I didn’t break my record, but it’s still respectable. I’ll have a bottle of Château Lafite 1869, if you please. Our blackmailer’s name is Roger Cox.”
“You’re getting a £3.99 bottle from the renowned wine region of South Dakota, and you’ll like it.” The name Roger Cox sounded familiar. “I think I know this person, like maybe they were part of Marcus’ Rolodex. Go to this address.” I rattled off a URL and Morrie pulled up a page of glittering filtered photographs of Marcus’ office and various fashion events and fancy cocktails.
“This your social media influencing?” Heathcliff frowned over Morrie’s shoulder.
“No, I deleted mine after I lost the internship.” I shrugged, as if it wasn’t a big deal. “I’m not gonna be able to take selfies for much longer, anyway. This is Ashley’s.”
“Whew,” Morrie scrolled down the page, which was ninety-five percent selfies of Ashley pouting at the camera in the latest designer clothes she borrowed from Marcus’ studio. I tried to push down my jealousy as Morrie scrolled past her most recent pics – of her standing outside Broadway premieres, her arm draped around B-level celebs, her modeling an amazing leather jacket, her waving at the camera as she waited in the airport lounge. “L8rs h8ers. I’m off home for a vacay.” Her final words.
I scrolled back to the gala dinner where Holly found Marcus’ drawing. The whole office had been invited and Ashley and I spent hours perfecting our outfits and makeup. Every moment of the event had been captured by Ashley for prosperity, and many of those moments featured me – teetering around the room in my too-high heels, beaming over my cocktail as Ashley pointed out all the A-listers, hunting through my goodie bag for the free Gucci scrunchie. I tried not to focus on how happy we looked hanging out together, instead scanning the crowd for familiar faces.
“There he is,” I jabbed my finger at the screen. Luckily, Ashley had diligently tagged Roger Cox in her picture, along with every other fashion person she could identify. He sat at the table behind Ashley and I, staring straight at the camera. “He was definitely there the night of the gala. I remember him now, he’s a British fashion writer, although I believe he’s retired. Marcus said they were ‘old friends’ but he didn’t ask me to send Cox a bottle of Champagne, which he’d done for other distinguished guests.”
“Get this, gorgeous. He lives nearby.” Morrie turned around his phone to show me a map. “Do you want to violate a police request for the second day in a row and pay him a visit tomorrow?”
I bit down on my pizza, my mouth filling with delicious cheese. Finally, we were getting close to finding Ashley’s killer and clearing my name. “Hell yeah.”
Chapter Twenty
“I’m not convinced this is the best plan,” I said as we stared up at the imposing facade of Roger Cox’s Georgian manor. “This guy is a big deal in fashion circles. He’s not just going to admit to blackmailing Marcus Ribald.”
“Trust me,” Morrie twirled his phone through his fingers like he was a punk drummer working the crowd. “I’m taking a page out of your book for this one. Cox is going to topple like a house of cards.”
With Quoth’s cage in tow, we’d taken the bus from ___field out into the Cotswolds, then hiked up the hill from the tiny villages of ___henge to reach Roger Cox’s home. Morrie complained the whole way about the wind and the rain and the cow dung on his brogues. I wished Heathcliff had been able to come with us – I imagined him completely in his element, wet clothes clinging to his body, his posture straight, his broad shoulders squared, the weight of the world lifting from him as he relished the brutality of the natural landscape he loved.
But then, I was thinking of the Heathcliff from my favorite book. The Heathcliff I knew –my Heathcliff– seemed to be just as happy to sulk behind his desk and yell at customers as he was to frolic on the moors.
Quoth clung to my shoulder and croaked away in my ear.Stop laughing at my thoughts, you ungainly fowl.
Nevermore,Quoth thought back. I pretended to punch him in the chest, and he pretended to peck out my eyes.
Morrie rung the doorbell. A few moments later, the man from the photograph answered.
