But she might as well, since she’s up.
Tired, but can’t sleep.
Her room is great—it’s like living in a forest, with all those shades of green. Emerald, and moss, and mint. It’s not the bed’s fault, either—certainly trumps the shitty mattress at home, with its coils poking out. And the walls are thick enough to make her feel like she’s alone. Which is certainly a nice change of pace.
Plus: plenty of loo roll.
And biscuits.
She nibbles one, relishing the fact that she doesn’t even have to put change in the kitchen tin to cover it, as steam begins to seep from the kettle and—
Something moves.
A flicker at the corner of her eye, or a reflection in the nearest glass. Cate startles, and turns, expecting to see Millie, or Malcolm, in search of a snack or a drink. Sienna, trying to find a moment’s peace. Kenzo, emerging like the killer in a slasher novel. Priscilla, quietly watching. Jaxon, ready to jump out and say boo.
But there’s no one there.
The kettle begins to hiss, the precursor to a boil, and she pulls it off the stove.
She holds her breath and listens, suddenly alert.
But the kitchen is empty.
Cate brews a cup and wraps her fingers around the mug, letting the heat seep into her palms. She carries it to the hall. Which is empty, too. Of course. Lit by a single yellow lamp.
She pads back toward the foyer, the marble floor cold against her bare feet.
But her steps, at least, are soundless.
She pulls the tartan blanket tighter, passes Arthur Fletch’s office, and slows, as if considering. Then slips inside.
The room is lit only by moonlight, and the pale glow of the hall lamp, and the hours on the safe, steady and red:59:48:31.
She sets her tea on the corner of the desk and approaches the hulking metal shape, with its filigreed fitting and high-tech panel. Something new, posing as something old. Pretending to be something it’s not. Like Fletch. All persona. Curated. Cultivated. Fake.
Cate steps closer, picturing her devices piled on the other side. Her laptop. Her phone. Her tablet, too. She can’t remember the last time she so much as used the loo without her phone for company. Some people say her generation’s addicted, but it’s not really their fault. They’re just using the tools they were given.
Amazing that no one’s tried to open the safe. Especially Millie—the look on her face when she gave up that second phone!
Cate puts her palm to the safe’s cold metal door. So close. So far. She knows she should just turn around, take her tea, go back to bed, but her stuff isright there.
Six digits are all that stand between them.
She chews her bottom lip and wonders—What would Fletch pick? His birthday? Surely not. She racks her brain, letting her gaze escape to the surrounding shelves, full of Arthur’s accolades. She locks eyes with an Edgar Award. A dagger in a shadow box. A glass sculpture—a gift from Merriweather Press, commemorating the first Petrarch novel. And the date it was published. Engraved on a neat metal plate.
Bingo.
Cate feels hope fill her chest as she keys in the date.
The safe answers with a single, warning chirp, like the buzzer on a quiz show. Cate jumps, afraid someone will hear, as the display flashes red, the hours momentarily replaced by three words.
Two attempts left.
Her heart drops into her stomach. And then she realizes her mistake.
Americans put the month first, not the day. She converted the date to numbers, but put them in the wrong order.
Idiot,idiot, she thinks, keying in the six digits—month, then day, then year.
