They were all gone now. All but one. She stood and turned, her heart jerking at the mess she’d made of the pristine room.
“What have I done?”
She surveyed the destruction with cold, sickening dread. Paper fragments covered the rug. Torn, colored photographs littered the floor like fallen leaves. The room was ransacked, violated, unmistakably destroyed by hands that had no right to touch any of it.
Her heart shuddered.
Panic clawed up her throat as the magnitude of her actions crashed over her. She had destroyed evidence. Invaded the privacy of someone who obviously valued it. Burned records that didn’t belong to her.
She was going to pay for this. It sank into her bones.
Maggie’s file.
Daisy rushed forward and snatched it from where she’d set it aside, her eyes darting around the suite for a hiding place. Somewhere safe. Somewhere, she could retrieve it later and return it to her friend. But where?
The empty drawers? The safe was locked. Every surface belonged to him, and nothing in this room would survive his discovery.
There was no safe place. Not here. Not anywhere on these grounds.
The only way to protect Maggie was to ensure no one ever saw what was inside her file.
Daisy opened the folder with shaking hands. The photograph on her ID showed a smiling woman with dark hair and bright eyes, someone who hadn’t yet learned what this night would cost.
Margaret O’Brien. 24 Ashford Lane, Dublin.
She repeated the name. The address. Echoed them again and again until they lodged in her mind like splinters. Then she fed the file into the flames.
The fire licked at the manila paper for a moment, then erupted with tall, greedy flames, climbing higher and consuming the evidence.
A valley of ashes gathered beneath the logs. Fragments of the files still remained, but most were now lost to the embers.
“What the…”
A small scrap of singed paper, curled in the back corner of the fireplace, handwritten and illuminated by the dancing flames. Custom stationery with the letterhead JT at the top. The names leapt off the page against the licking flames Peter Pangbourne, Tannhäuser, Hadrian Welles.
Not thinking, she reached into the fire and snatched the note. The hair on her arm scorched immediately as her sleeve caught fire.
“Stop!”
Daisy spun, swatting her arm, putting out the flames, staring into the eyes of Jack. The paper fell to the floor, burning into the carpet.
He crossed the room in two strides, eyes furious, and stomped on what was left of the burned list.
“What have you done?”
Flames reflected in his silver eyes. His dark hair was disheveled, his crisp, white collar speckled with red that looked remarkably like blood.
“Answer me!”
Daisy tensed, reflexively stepping back, forgetting the fire was right behind her. He grabbed her arm with swollen hands, split at the knuckles. More blood.
She looked down at the singed burn hole in the carpet. The note was gone. “Why did you write that list?”
Rather than answer, he yanked up her scorched sleeve, exposing her burned skin. “You’re hurt.”
She tugged her arm away. “Did you set it up? Did you send them for me?”
His mouth formed a flat, disapproving line. Scowling, he snatched her hand and tugged her toward the bathroom, but Daisy jerked her hand out of his grip. “Let go of me!”
