“Fine,” he growled, then hauled open the door and stomped out of the room.
I let out a frustrated groan and threw up my hands. I hadn’t felt so angry since … since …
Since Corfu.
Since Mr. Dorian had made his accusations against Oliver. The anger all but fled from my body at that realization, and I slumped back into my chair. I turned to the hearth, where the fire still crackled, and stared at the flames while my mind thrummed.
I had been fighting so hard not to see the connection, but I couldn’t keep ignoring it. This investigation was no longer just about finding Charlie’s killer. It was also about Oliver. And determining once and for all if Mr. Dorian had beenright about him. A soft rain began to fall outside, and the light patter on the windows drew my attention away from the hearth. Then I noticed that the sky had darkened, and I sat up. Nearly half an hour had passed since Jack stormed out. I needed to return home, but not without looking in on Delia first. I rose from my chair and exited the room.
Chapter 16
As I ascended the stairs to my sister’s room, the rain began to fall harder, and I couldn’t help noticing the house’s eerie silence. It had never been like this when I lived here. One of us was always shouting about something or running on the stairs or down the hall. Or, on very rare occasions when no one was looking, sliding down the banister. A smile touched my lips as I remembered the afternoon Jack showed me what to do and how proud he was when I mastered it. For a moment, my heart ached for those lost years, even though I had often felt hopelessly misunderstood by my own family. But I could see now that it hadn’t been as bad as all that. We had all tried to love each other in our own misguided ways, and no matter how much we had clashed, it had certainly been better than this. No wonder Delia had felt abandoned. The house was like a tomb.
I stopped in front of her bedroom door. No light shone underneath, yet I knocked anyway.
“Delia? It’s me,” I said softly as I tried the knob. The door creaked open, and I poked my head into the room. Her bed was empty. I frowned and opened the door all the way. Shewasn’t here. I turned around and shut the door behind me. Where on earth was she? I continued down the corridor and checked the other bedrooms, but they were empty as well. Then I remembered. I moved faster down the hall to the back staircase that led to the top floor. At dinner last week, Mother had said her studio was up there. I opened the door to the staircase and could see a faint glimmer of light from the very top. By the time I reached the top, I was panting for breath. Some of the servants’ bedrooms were in this part of the house, but at the other end of the hall, I could see light peeking out from under a shut door. I hurried towards it and knocked.
“Delia? Are you in there?”
There was a beat of silence, and I heard some rustling.
“The door’s open,” she finally said, though her voice was heavily muffled.
I opened the door and found her standing with her back to me in front of a large canvas.
“Hello, darling. I’ve come to check on you.”
She didn’t answer at first and instead began swiping the canvas with long, bold strokes. “Mother said you were here yesterday,” she replied without turning around.
“Yes, but you were asleep.” I moved slowly, as if I were approaching a wild animal.
She hummed in response, a flat, joyless sound, and continued her work. I craned my neck to peer at the canvas and came to a halt. LikeA Woman Unbound, this piece immediately caught my attention, but the emotions it evoked could not have been more different. It depicted the shadowy figure of a woman painted against a background of muted shades of brown, green, and grey, like the sky before a terrible storm. The woman’s hair was loose and wild, as if a great wind was whipping all around her. And right in the center of her chest was a gaping black hole. I felt that sorrow like a lance through my chest.
I must have let out a gasp, because Delia glanced back at me. “What do you think?”
“I … I don’t know,” I answered honestly—and yet I couldn’t look away. It felt like a painfully accurate depiction of grief.
Delia’s mouth curved up in a mirthless smile, and she turned back to the canvas. “Is Jack still here?” she asked after a moment.
I had to blink and give myself a shake. “No. He just left.”
Her shoulders relaxed a little. “Good. I can’t face him right now.”
“That is understandable,” I said on a sigh. “He saw his solicitor earlier. It’s good news. Well, good enough for now,” I amended.
Delia stopped for a moment, as if considering something, then set down her brush and palette. Then she wiped her hands on her apron and faced me. “What is it?”
I frowned in concern. Her eyes were red, as if she had been crying, and the dark smudges under them indicated she had not been sleeping well, despite her afternoon naps. “Darling …” I began gently, but Delia shook off my concern.
“Just tell me, Minnie.”
“The solicitor thinks that you won’t end up being charged based on the evidence at hand. Apparently, whoever killed Charles needed a great deal of strength based on the murder weapon.”
Delia was silent as she absorbed my words then let out a tsk of disbelief. “So they think it was a man, then?”
“Nothing has been decided just yet, but it seems likely, yes.”
Her eyes turned glassy, and she sat down hard on a stool beside her. “I really thought they would accuse me,” she murmured.
