She gave him a small smile, easing out from the alcove before they could be seen. The crowd had doubled in size, guests clustering by the open windows to watch the storm. She elbowed her way through the glittering crush, searching each face for signs of Reed.
He wasn’t on the terrace. Nor was he in the lounge, where couples gathered in chattering droves. There was no sign of him in the spacious study crowded with men in suits, or the first-floor bathrooms where a line had begun to form, or the smoky billiards room where a boy she’d gone to high school with held out a pool stick and invited her to break.
She was halfway to the library when Philip cornered her. And he wasn’t alone.
“There you are,” he boomed, prying an unlit cigar from his teeth. “You’ve had us all on quite the wild-goose chase.”
Her stepfather’s jacket was gone, his hair oil dark and matted flat, as though he’d been caught out in the storm with the rest of the party. He was flanked by a wary-looking Thomas and a man Vivienne didn’t recognize.
She flattened down the rumpled front of her dress.Can this wait? I’m in the middle of something.
“This fine fellow here is Isaac Shaw,” Philip cut in loudly, speaking before Thomas was able to translate. “He’s from theDaily Talk.”
He saidDaily Talkthe way one might saybubonic plague, his disgust thinly veiled. Vivienne paid just enough attention to know the gossip rag wasn’t one of the publications her stepfather held in high esteem.
“Shaw here is hoping you’ll grace him with an interview,” he added with a twist of his signet ring. The pale white stone winked nebulously up at her. “Spare a few words for him, if you catch my meaning.”
Vivienne’s stomach pitted. This was what her mother had tried to tell her back in the kitchen:You’ll have to handle it. The way you do.
There was no questioning Philip when he gave an order. And this was indubitably an order, though he’d phrased it as in invitation. It was a bitter reminder, in the face of her momentary lapse. No matter how hard she played at being a girl, at the end of the day she was nothing more than a doll on a music box, forced to turn and turn by the hand that wound her spring.
All hope of finding Reed in time dissolved to mist.
Isaac Shaw looked to be in his midtwenties, with thick black glasses and a wrinkled button-down, a ratted camera strap slung over one shoulder.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you,” he said.
“She’s a mute,” explained Philip, chewing on the butt of his cigar. “Or, at least, she pretends to be. You know how capricious these young ladies can be.”
“Ah,” said Shaw, who didn’t seem to know how to respond to that.
Philip thumped Thomas proudly on the back. “Thankfully, Walsh here is an outstanding interpreter. He’ll be happy to mediate any discussion between the two of you. Help you get a quote for your, ah, paper.”
“Excellent,” said Shaw, poking at his glasses. “I was thinking we—”
“It’s terrible business,” cut in Philip, “what happened to Donahue. He was a good kid. Real bright future ahead of him. His father is a client of mine, you know. Has been, since his boy was in diapers. I feel a bit like I’ve lost my own son.”
“Right,” said Shaw, though now he sounded wary. He reached for the library door, pulling it open to reveal the cavernous quiet beyond. “Well, shall we? I won’t take up too much of your time.”
Vivienne glanced up at Thomas and found him already looking over at her, his gaze unreadable, his jaw set. Deep inside her, she felt the thing with teeth arch its back and yawn. A sleeper, slowly waking. A predator, sensing prey.
This was how it always began.
And there was nothing she could do to stop it.
There never was.
Because Vivienne wasn’t brittle primrose; she was deadly nightshade. Tempting. Toxic. Fatal.
She was going to kill Isaac Shaw.
And Thomas was going to see.
The Turner library was as cold as a mausoleum, hemmed in by towering built-ins stacked with leather-bound books and gleaming collectibles. Several turn-of-the-century accent chairs sat clustered before an unlit fireplace, their end tables stacked with medical journals. Vivienne surged in ahead of Thomas and the reporter and took a seat on the edge of a tufted chaise. She looked restless. Uneasy. Like she was seconds away from bursting into flight.
Outside, the storm had picked up in intensity. Whipped sideways by the wind, the rain drilled against the wide oriel windows. It cast Vivienne in an odd, rippling light, so that she looked as though she was underwater. In the dark, her eyes were black all the way through. Her skin was as pearlescent as a siren’s. She hadn’t looked at him. Not once.
“It’s Walsh, right?” asked Shaw, taking up a spot against the fireplace.
