Gabriella retreating. Neither should you.
A slow smile that made everything fall into place. The open window had been a decoy. Lewis and Anderson had fallen for it. But they had left Gabriella behind.
She’d backed into the hallway table. The vase had toppled onto the floor. A brief distraction. Enough for her to run to the parlor. Not enough to shut the door on Miss Finch.
She shook her head in an effort to clear it, and saw that she stood in the very room where she’d met the Crofts during her previous visit. She just couldn’t recall entering it.
“Are you all right?” Peter’s voice at her shoulder was firm but soothing.
“Of course not.” She doubted she ever would be and it was important for him to know that.
His arms came around her, pulling her close. Releasing a heaving sigh, she pressed into his warmth — the strength and support he offered — and savored each second. There was no telling if or when they would ever be this close again.
So she drew the scent of tobacco mingled with wet wool and notes of musk into her lungs as she wound her arms around his torso. Her fingertips curled, gripping him hard — as though she feared she’d fall off the planet the moment she let him go. A sound vibrated next to her ear. A low hum of assurance.
“Gabriella.” There was a world of emotion in the strain of his voice. So much so, it threatened to shatter whatever composure she still possessed.
“As you’ve said, everything will be all right. Let’s try to believe that.” It was all she had at the moment. A fragile promise based on nothing but hope.
“I don’t just believe it,” he said. “I’m certain of it.”
If only she had his confidence. Perhaps she should try to. She nodded against his chest and stepped back. He released her, but took hold of her hand, his fingers threading with hers.
“Gabriella, I need you to know that—”
Approaching footsteps cut him off and then Croft was there, his weight supported by a cane. Despite his slightly battered appearance, his dark gaze was as sharp as usual. He assessed their close proximity, their expressions, and anything else that caught his interest. Gabriella pulled her hand free from Peter’s and turned more fully toward her host. He seemed to scrutinize her every pore before shifting his full attention to Peter.
She almost sagged with relief.
“I wasn’t expecting to see you again so soon,” Croft said, his tone slightly critical, perhaps even annoyed. He glanced toward the fireplace, or more likely the clock that sat on the mantlepiece, then said, “As I’m sure you can imagine, I’m a bit preoccupied at the moment, so the help you require will have to wait until tomorrow. If you don’t mind?”
Croft turned while sweeping his arm toward the door. A clear indication that they were expected to leave. Gabriella shifted onto her left foot, but Peter stayed her with his hand.
“This cannot wait,” Peter said, his voice as steady as a sniper’s aim. “Miss Hastings needs your protection. I’d like for her to remain here until all has been done to ensure that she won’t be charged with murder.”
Croft held Peter’s gaze for a long silent moment, then said, “It’s probably best if you explain the situation to me in full.”
Peter proceeded to do so in a precise manner that focused on details instead of emotion. When he reached the part about finding Gabriella and the observations he’d made regarding Miss Finch, he paused.
“Perhaps it’s best if you tell Croft what happened,” he told her softly. “If you think you’re able?”
She swallowed past a knot in her throat and started searching for the right words.
“Miss Hastings.” Croft’s voice made her realize she’d just been standing there without speaking, she knew not for how long. “Would you like a brandy?”
“Yes, please.” At least she’d have a glass to hold onto. The drink itself might help soothe her nerves as well. She watched Croft prepare the drink and thanked him when he handed it to her a few seconds later. The liquid had a rich flavor, the smooth texture leaving a comforting warmth in its wake as it slid down her throat.
“How many times do you think you stabbed Miss Finch before you stopped?” Croft asked, so casually it took a moment for the weight of the question to hit her.
She blinked. “I’m not entirely sure.”
“Four times?” Croft angled his head, affecting a pensive pose. “Five?”
“More,” she whispered, her throat once again tight. “I couldn’t stop.”
“Why not?”
The prompt reminded her of the scissors she’d snatched off the parlor table — of their weight in her hand and what it had felt like to push them through flesh and tissue. That initial resistance followed by softness. She started shaking. “I knew what she’d done and I thought I was next.”
