Page 52 of Hunting Pretty

It felt as if the room itself was watching, waiting, with its black-framed windows and heavy curtains letting in barely any light. The air was thick with dust and a powdery air freshener.

A wrought-iron chandelier cast a gray glow over the grim face of Mrs. Byrne, sitting quietly in the chair, her hands folded in her lap, fingers twisting the fabric of her black Chanel skirt suit, clinging to her like a shroud.

She looked smaller than I remembered, like grief had shrunk her down, and I couldn’t shake the feeling that she was barely holding herself together.

Mr. Byrne stood by the ornate mantle of the unlit fireplace, twisting a signet ring on his right hand, his features sharp and pointed, like they’d been carved out of stone—his chin jutting forward, his nose long and narrow.

But it was his eyes that creeped me out the most. Theywere dark, too dark, almost black, and they never seemed to blink.

“We’re very sorry to hear about Liath,” I said, reaching out to the elaborate afternoon tea laid out between us and picking up a perfectly quartered cucumber sandwich to place on my plate.

Mrs. Byrne’s watery eyes, red and swollen from days of crying, flickered toward me for a moment before she looked away, as though the weight of her grief was too much to meet my gaze. “Thank you, my dear.”

“I just…” I glanced between Liath’s parents, watching their reactions. “I can’t believe that she would run away,”

The soft curve of Mrs. Byrne’s chin trembled, but she didn’t make a sound.

Mr. Byrne’s stare grew heavier and I chewed on the corner of the now-tasteless sandwich and repressed a shiver, trying to ignore the crawling, skittering feeling across my skin.

Lisa set her Royal Doulton bone china teacup and saucer aside and cleared her throat. “Have the police given you any more information on what happened?”

“The police never should have been involved.” Mr. Byrne scowled and muttered, “Ungrateful girl.”

Lisa and I traded a glance.

Lisa pushed back a wayward strand that had gotten loose from her ribboned ponytail.

I shifted forward on my chair. “Mr. Byrne? You seem angry at Liath.” His soulless eyes narrowed on my face and I regretted the question.

“We knew from the start that Liath ran away.” Mr. Byrne’s voice boomed through the silent sitting room. “Wegave her everything she could ever want. The best education, the best lifestyle, the best opportunities…”

He strode over to a small bar, snatching a decanter of whiskey and pouring himself a stiff drink.

“I even pulled strings with my alma mater to get her into Darkmoor because she didn’t exactly have the grades for it.” He knocked back the entire drink before whirling to us. “And how did she repay us?”

Mrs. Byrne began to sob into a silk handkerchief, hiding her face.

“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph,” Mr. Byrne snarled at his wife. “Don’t you start again.”

“You don’t think Liath ran away,” I said to Mrs. Byrne, a statement rather than a question.

Her eyes darted to her husband. “A mother knows—”

“Enough!” Mr. Byrne bellowed. “You’re not even her real mother.”

I froze, staring first at Mr. Byrne, breathing heavily through his nostrils as he glared at his wife.

Then I turned to Mrs. Byrne whose tear-streaked cheeks flamed red, refusing to look at her husband.

What was he saying?

That Liath wasn’t her real daughter?

Was she a product of an affair from Mr. Byrne and another woman that Mrs. Byrne had covered up?

Only then did I take in Mr. Byrne’s pinched features, his sharp chin, pointed nose, and beady brown eyes.

Liath had full dimpled cheeks and a full mouth, thick wavy auburn hair, and expressive emerald eyes.

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