“I’m deeply sorry to tell you this,” he said in a low voice. “But when I do, I need you to not show any emotions.”
Fear flickered in her eyes, as if she was bracing herself for news she’d already assumed. She searched his face frantically.
A pause. “Your father was killed last night.”
They kept walking.
Penelope managed to keep a straight face, her eyes downcast. But he felt the tremor that shuddered through her body, the sudden stiffness of her posture, the way she clung to his arm as if she might fall. He steadied against her, pulling her arm to his body. The color had drained from her face in the changing light. So, she hadn’t heard.
“I’m so sorry,” he whispered again.
“That’s impossible,” she whispered back.
“Believe me, I wish I could tell you something different,” he said softly.
“He’s just busy,” she answered in a firm voice tinged with anger. Her eyes went up now, going to the pavilion and the thick winter roses cascading down its sides. “He’s scheduled to show up here in an hour. He’s going to lead a toast.”
She met his eyes defiantly again. It was all he could do to give her a grave look in return.
She started shaking her head, and he squeezed her hand slightly as it clenched at the crook of his elbow. His gaze darted to the people milling about inside the pavilion.
“I know the weight of what I’m asking from you,” he whispered to her, “but try to keep your composure. You aren’t safe here.”
But Penelope just pulled her arm away. “No,youdon’t understand. He said—he told me—”
“Told you what? When did you last speak to him?”
“When you were performing on the stage.” Her eyes darted from the pavilion to him. “When we were at the Alexandra Palace. He told me he’d be here.”
He gave her a sad look. “I’m so sorry.”
She swallowed hard, and behind her incredulity, he could see her struggling to hold the tears back. Her eyes went back to the ground again. She was good at it, this restraint. He wondered how many times in the past she’d had to do it, and what for.
“How can you possibly know this?” she said hoarsely. “Whydo you know?”
“I can’t tell you everything yet,” he replied. “But whoever targeted you last night in your apartment also targeted your father. They succeeded with him. Might mean they’ll make another attempt with you.”
“He died when we were in my flat?” she whispered.
Winter nodded.
She took his arm again, this time as if for support. He could feel her hand trembling slightly against his elbow, her grip so tight that her knuckles had turned white.
“I need to tell someone,” she suddenly said.
“No.”
Anger flashed through her gaze. “You don’t have the right to tell me that.”
The words came out of Winter sharper than he intended. “Maybe not,” he replied. “But you have to listen to me. Please. You can’t tell anyone else.”
“But I—”
Winter stopped their walk for a moment and turned to face her. He leaned down to her ear so that no one else could see his lips moving. “We don’t know who did it,” he whispered, “and that means everyone close to you is a potential suspect.”
When he pulled slightly away, she was glaring at him, eyes glossy with suspicion. “Including you.”
“I have absolutely nothing to gain from hurting you.”
