Page 20 of One Last Secret

“Was he expecting you?”

“Yes. I’d spoken to him over the phone that morning and told him I was arriving late that evening. It was resolved quickly, but he was overall just very preoccupied. He seemed very focused on his art.”

“Did he seem depressed or unhappy?”

I hesitate again, not to think of a lie but because I’m actually not sure how to answer that. Had she asked me before Victor’s disappearance, I would have said he didn’t seem depressed, but now I don’t know.

“He seemed anxious,” I finally say. “I wouldn’t say unhappy. Just… I overheard him when he was painting, and he seemed very desperate that this particular work of art meet his expectations.”

“Which were?”

“The art or his expectations.”

“His expectations. Both, if you know the answer to both.”

“I’m not familiar with what he was working on,” I say, “but he said that reality was a façade, and he needed to transcend that façade and find the true essence underneath.”

Reyes's expression remains mostly unchanged, but the slight lifting of her eyebrows tells me that she finds that intriguing. "He said this to you?"

“No, I overheard it.”

“How?”

Heat climbs my neck. “I heard noises coming from the studio and climbed the stairs to see if he was all right. When I reached the studio, I hesitated and listened.”

“Why did you hesitate?”

“I was told the room was off limits.”

“So you heard all of this through the door?”

“Yes.”

She taps her finger twice, then asks, “You were present at the dinner last night, yes?”

“Yes.”

“How was Mr. Holloway’s behavior during dinner?”

“During dinner? He was… well, he was polite and charming. An excellent host.”

“You paused when you said that.”

I’m starting to feel uncomfortable with Reyes’s probing stare. I shift on my feet and say, “Well, prior to dinner, he was anxious once more. He was concerned that dinner be perfect. He was worried about wine choice and searched his kitchen several times, but I’m not convinced he was looking for anything. He said he was, but it seemed almost…”

“Compulsive behavior?”

“I don’t want to make that claim,” I demure. “I’m not a psychologist.”

She nods. “And these guests were his art dealer and a local gallery owner, right?”

“Yes. A Miss Lisa Reinhardt and a Mr. Marcus Fairfax.”

“And what was your impression of them?”

“Normal enough. Marcus was a little uncouth when the wine got to him, but he seemed pleasant. Lisa was rather uptight, but—if you’ll forgive me—not much more so than most people of a certain class.”

She gives a half-smile which is probably the closest to laughter she ever comes, then says, “And how did Mr. Holloway seem to like them?”

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