“So what do we do?” asks Cate.
“I mean,” says Jaxon, “the contest is still on.”
Malcolm pushes off the safe, and rounds on them. “My wife isdead!” he roars. “And you’re worried about whether or not you get a book deal?”
Jaxon holds up his hands in mock surrender. “I’m sorry, man. I really am. But I can’t be the only one thinking it.”
Malcolm glowers at them all. He wants to put his hand through the wall. To rage. To drink. He needs to see the same pain on their faces, or at least, indignation. But they don’t look ravaged by grief. The only thing painted over them isguilt.
Kenzo rubs the back of his neck. Cate stares at the floor. Millie shifts from foot to foot, and Priscilla takes a deep breath and looks up at the ceiling.Unbelievable, thinks Malcolm.
“I mean,” says Jaxon, “someonestill has to win, right? And last time I checked, six of us are still he—”
Malcolm launches himself at Jaxon, tackling him around the waist, and even though it’s been three decades since he set foot on a rugby pitch, he makes contact, wrapping his arms around the bigger, stronger, younger man, savoring theOof!that escapes Jaxon as he staggers backward, into the office wall. He shoves Malcolm off, and before Malcolm can get his balance and take him down, Kenzo steps between them.
“Hey, hey, this isnotthe time.”
Kenzo’s tall, but there’s not much meat on his bones, and Malcolm knows he could lay him out, if he wanted. But instead he turns, storming back toward the foyer. The others trail behind him.
“Jaxon’s not wrong,” says Priscilla. “Even if Rufus doesn’t come back, Eleanor will. The contest is still on.”
Malcolm shakes his head. “I can’t believe what I’m hearing,” he says, bracing himself against the round table. Jaxon mutters something, too low for him to catch, but Millie flinches, and Kenzo sighs.
“What did you say?” demands Malcolm, but the little prick has lost his nerve. He turns his glare on Millie. “What did he say?”
The blond girl looks from him to Jaxon and back again. “He... um... he said—”
Jaxon winces. “Mill, come on, don’t—”
“—that you’re mad because you know you won’t win. Not without—”
Malcolm lunges for Jaxon again but catches his toe on the rug and stumbles. He staggers to his feet, but Priscilla is already there.
“Enough,” she snaps at Jaxon, pointing to the hall. “Go.”
“Where?”
“I don’t care. Just. Go.”
Jaxon frowns. “I’m sorry, okay?” he says, holding up his hands. “I make jokes when I’m stressed. It’s, like, a defense mechanism. I’m sorry,” he says again, before trudging off toward the kitchen.
Millie begins quietly to cry again, as if she’s the one whose wife is dead. Malcolm scowls as Cate rubs her back. He doesn’t want to let his mind drag him back to the stairs, to Sienna, but he can’t seem to help it. His legs carry him around the antlered table. His head tips, eyes trailing up to the landing. The stained-glass portrait of Julia Petrarch looms over the body like a saint.
He isn’t alone. The others are there, most of them lingering a respectful distance. But Priscilla comes close enough to touch his arm.
“I think we should move her.”
“You shouldn’t disturb a crime scene,” warns Millie. “Right, Kenzo?”
“This wasn’t a crime,” says Priscilla through gritted teeth. “And we can’t just leave her there on the landing. She deserves to rest somewhere more...” She searches for the right word, but before she can find it, Kenzo says, “Temperature controlled?”
Millie and Cate share twin looks of horror.
“It’s a body,” he says gently. “It’s going to...”
He has the decency not to finish, but he doesn’t have to.
Malcolm’s stomach is already turning at the thought. His head begins to pound, a hangover knocking on the door. He’s not about to answer. He really, really, really needs another drink. He looks up at the landing, Sienna’s fingers trailing off the edge of the stair.
