Page 188 of Homeport

And why in her office, why at an event with hundreds of people wandering the lower levels? Why take such a risk?

Because it had impact, Miranda realized. Because it once again put her name in the paper in a scandal. Because it had ruined the opening of the exhibit and overshadowed all the effort she’d put into it.

It was personal, it had to be. But what had she done to create that kind of animosity and obsession? Who had she harmed? John, she thought. If she was disgraced beyond repair, if she was forced to resign from the Institute, he would be the logical choice for her replacement. It would mean a promotion, a larger salary, more power and prestige.

Could it be that simple?

Or Vincente. He’d known her the longest, been the closest to her. Was there something she’d done to cause resentment, envy? Was it a matter of money to buy the jewels, the clothes, the big, splashy trips that made his young wife happy?

Who else was left? Giovanni and Richard were dead, Elise was in the hospital. Elizabeth . . .

Could that lifetime of resentment have bloomed into this kind of hate?

Leave it for the police, she told herself, and rolled the worst of the tension out of her shoulders when she pulled the car to the front of the house. In less than thirty-six hours she would pass this nasty ball over to Cook.

It meant spending most of her evening working out every step she could tell him. And all the steps she couldn’t.

She picked up her briefcase. Richard’s book was inside it, and she intended to read it cover to cover tonight. Maybe she’d missed something on the one quick skim she’d had time for.

The fact that her umbrella was in the trunk rather than on the seat beside her only proved her thoughts were too scattered and distracted for logical reasoning. She used the briefcase as a shield, holding it over her head as she made a dash to the porch.

She was soaked through anyway.

Inside, she dragged a hand through her hair to scatter the rain, and called out for Andrew. She hadn’t seen him since she left the hospital the night before, but his car was parked in its usual spot. It was time, she’d decided, they too had a talk.

It was time she told him everything, trusted him enough for that.

She called out again as she started upstairs. Damn it, she wanted to get out of her wet clothes, take a hot bath. Why wouldn’t he at least answer?

Probably sleeping, she thought. The man slept like the dead. Well, he was going to have to do a Lazarus, because she wanted to tell him everything she could before their mother arrived.

“Andrew?” His door wasn’t quite closed, but she gave it a perfunctory knock before nudging it open. The room was pitch-dark, and though she imagined he would curse viciously, she reached for the light switch that would turn on the floor lamp. She muttered an oath of her own when the lamp stayed dark.

The power was still on. Damn it, he hadn’t replaced the bulb again. She started forward, intending to give him a good shake, and tripped over him.

“Andrew, for God’s sake!” In a brilliant flash of lightning she saw him at her feet, still wearing the tux he’d put on the night before.

It wasn’t the first time she’d come across him passed out in his clothes, sprawled on the floor and stinking of liquor.

The anger came first, one hot spurt of it that pushed her to just turn around, just walk out and leave him where he’d fallen. Then the disappointment, the grief flooded in.

“How could you do this to yourself again?” she murmured. She crouched down, hoping he wasn’t so far gone that she couldn’t rouse him and get him into bed.

It struck her suddenly that she didn’t smell whiskey, or the sick sweat that carried it. She reached down, shook him, then with a sigh laid a hand on his head.

And felt the sticky warmth. Blood.

“Oh God. Andrew. No, oh please.” Her smeared and trembling fingers probed for a pulse. And the bedside lamp switched on.

“He’s not dead. Yet.” The voice was soft, with a light laugh at the edges. “Would you like to keep him alive, Miranda?”

Normally Ryan hated to repeat himself, but he let himself into Elizabeth’s suite exactly as he’d done before. It wasn’t the time for fancywork. The rooms were silent and empty, but that didn’t matter to him.

He’d have found a way around, or through, any occupant.

In the bedroom, he took out the jewelry case precisely as he had two nights ago. And removed the locket.

It was only a hunch, just a kernel of ice in his gut, but he’d learned to follow his instincts. He studied the old photographs, saw no particular resemblance. Then again, perhaps around the eyes. Maybe there was something around the woman’s eyes.

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