“Don’t worry, Sisi,” he mutters, gripping the table till his knuckles hurt. “I’ll find them.”
He shoves the paper in his pocket and marches up the stairs.
Hardwick’s case will have to wait.
Right now, Malcolm has to solve his own.
Chapter Five
“YOU’RE DRUNK.”
“That’s neither here nor there,” says Malcolm, standing in the kitchen. At some point, when he was in the cellar, the sun came up, and now morning light cuts through the windows. It’s too bright, so he angles himself toward Priscilla instead. She’s standing with her back against the island, both hands wrapped around a steaming cup, looking as ifshe, at least, never went back to sleep.
“You need to sober up.” She puts a mug of black coffee in his shaking hands, but he slams it down on the counter.
“I need to find my wife’s killer.”
“Malcolm,” she says steadily, “I know you’re upset—”
“You’re notlistening.” He drags the sheet of paper from his pocket, waves it in the air. “I have proof that someone in this house—”
“—typed a note. So does Millie. That doesn’t mean—”
“—and I intend to question everyone.”
Priscilla pinches the bridge of her nose. Just then Jaxon walks through the door, takes one look at Malcolm, and immediately starts to turn around.
“Wait,” demands Malcolm.
“Can’t,” calls Jaxon as he heads down the hall. “I was just heading out.”
Malcolm stalks after him. “I have some questions for you.”
“Sorry, big guy. Gotta get my run in.”
Malcolm claps him on the shoulder. “Your run can wait.”
“Technically, so can your—”
But Malcolm doesn’t let him finish. Instead, he pivots, shoving Jaxon through into Fletch’s office. Which would serve as his interrogation room.
One way or another, he was going to crack this case.
Chapter Six
MALCOLM DRAGS A CHAIR INTO THE CENTERof the room. “Sit.”
Jaxon Knight glances over his shoulder at the door, as if he’s thinking of making a run for it, but after a moment he sighs and sinks into the seat.
The safe in the corner emits a soft electric hum, at odds with its old-fashioned style. The hours on the digital screen:29. The age Sienna was when they got married.
Malcolm lets the silence settle, thicken until it starts to weigh. How would Leo Hardwick play this? he wonders as the seconds stretch on. He’d take his time. After all, without his wife, that’s the only thing he has.
Malcolm lifts the glass sculpture from the corner of the desk, the one from Fletch’s publisher, commemorating the first Petrarch novel. It’s heavier than he expected. And sharper, too. It would make a fine weapon—the thought intrudes, old habit having little respect for present circumstance.
He returns the glorified paperweight to its place and looks around.
How high and mighty old Arty must have felt sitting here, flanked by all the trappings of his success, literally haloed by the light of his creations. How close to immortality, secure in the knowledge that his work would almost certainly endure the test of time, so many copies sold in so many countries that, barring a nuclear catastrophe, his stories would live on for decades.
