“It’s certainly dramatic,” she says. “But who would want tolivethere?”
The answer, of course, is Arthur Fletch.
Arthur Fletch, who went and bought not just the house but the entire island on which it sits, christening it the House That Petrarch Built after his most famous series and proving once again that few things are as bottomless as the male ego. Especially considering the house itself has clearly been here for centuries.
Malcolm wraps an arm around her shoulders.
“Oh come on, admit it,” he says, flashing her a cheeky smirk. “You’re a wee bit excited.”
Sienna is feeling many things right now, but excitement isn’t at the top of the list.
She’s tired from the flight, and the car, and the boat, and the fact that she didn’t sleep for two nights before they left.
She’s nervous about this whole weekend, though she’d never admit it to Malcolm.
She’s worried about her dog—Edgar has really always beenhers, not theirs, even if Malcolm insisted on naming him—a geriatric Chihuahua who’s been at death’s door no less than four times in the last year and will probably will give up the mortal coil out of spite while she’s away.
And somewhere beneath those three pervasive feelings, as well as hunger, and thirst, and a nausea that clearly pales compared to Malcolm’s, sure, she’s just a little excited.
“Sisi,” he murmurs, that pet name she’s always hated. “Weareon the same page, aren’t we?”
Sienna turns in his arms and looks up, studying her husband of thirteen years.
The way his gray hair curls across his temples, in desperate need of a cut. He refuses, insisting it makes him look ten years younger like this. And the infuriating thing is that he’s right. No one ever seems to notice the wrinkles aroundhiseyes, the slight sag underhischin. They don’t even seem to care that his teeth are crooked and several shades off white.
He’s a notorious flirt, always has been. Sienna has watched women, and even a few men, proposition him at writing conventions and conferences—when she’s standing right next to him. His co-author. His wife. She never minded much—in truth, at times, she even took some pleasure in it, knowing that for all that flirting, he was hers.
When she doesn’t answer the question, his voice goes gravel-low. “Youpromisedme.”
Which is true. She did promise. Or at least, she agreed.
And she’s already beginning to regret it.
“Mm-hm,” she says, forcing herself to smile, a thin, tight-lipped thing, as she runs down one of her many mental lists, this one titledWays to Dispose of a Body.
It soothes her more than meditation ever could.
And as the boat slices toward the island, and Malcolm squeezes her close and begins to hum a Scottish tune, Sienna wonders, not for the first time, whether she’s capable of murder.
* * *
SIENNA TURNS HER BACK ON HIM.
Annoyance flickers through Malcolm—she knows how much he hates that—but then she points to a figure on the cliff.
“Is that him?”
Malcolm squints, trying to make out the shape. He knows he needs glasses, now that fifty’s in the rearview mirror, but it seems like such an acquiescence, a surrendering to age, and he’s not about to go gently into that good night. To trade words likehandsomefordistinguished.
Hecanmake out the man’s long coat, the wide-brimmed red hat on his head, one hand raised to keep it from being torn away by the wind.
Hard to tell for sure at this distance, but who else would it be?
“Yep,” he says, “that’ll be Arty.”
Malcolm waves up at the figure as the captain guides the speedboat toward the jetty, but the man on the cliff doesn’t wave back; he simply turns and trudges back in the direction of the house.
“Hmm, must not have seen us.” As Malcolm’s hand falls, he feels a fresh swell of nerves, rising like bile, an anxiety that’s been slowly mounting since they took off from JFK.
