Page 26 of A Thin Line

By the time I was done getting ready, I had five minutes to spare. I didn’t waste time making the bed or finding a permanent spot for my makeup. When I stepped into the hallway, I closed the door behind me, trying to make a mental note of which door was mine. Fortunately, I was able to tell how to go back the way we’d come the night before.

As I continued down the hall, I wondered where Whittier’s bedroom was. Was his on the same hallway and the same floor or was he somewhere else in this place? I still didn’t have a clear sense of just how big this home was, and I hoped to find out sometime today.

When I arrived at the staircase, I noticed that there were stairs leading up to yet another floor. Once again, I was shocked at the extravagance and I thought to myself that those feelings were okay, because I’d let them fuel my anger at the man who had figuratively taken my life.

Instead of going down the stairs, though, I decided to follow the landing along the wall. In the center of the space was that chandelier I’d seen the night before, and I hated to admit it was even more magnificent in the natural light spilling into the space. It was then that I realized I hadn’t looked outside. I’d been in such a rush to get ready, I hadn’t opened the curtains or even pulled them back a little bit. I’d have to do that later.

Now that I was on the other side of the huge space, I had a different angle looking down at the antechamber—and I noticed that there was even more artwork on the walls down there. The décor screamed money, opulence…decadence. It made me feel almost like I was in a castle rather than a mansion.

I noticed that this side was the mirror opposite of the other. There were stairs going up as well as a hallway that looked much like the one where my room was—but this hallway was dark, so dark I couldn’t see down it very well.

I had but a couple of minutes left, so I took the stairs on that side. When I got down, I allowed myself to get a good look at the antechamber. At the end I’d been unable to see was a set of double doors made of handsome wood and what I would later learn was leaded glass. I could see lots of green through the glass but, without getting closer, I couldn’t make out details.

Those doors were beautiful but another lavish display of the money this family possessed.

It made me sick.

Before I could turn and head to the kitchen, I heard Whittier’s voice. It was muted, not echoing as I imagined it would sound like in this space, but there was no denying it was his. I wondered if he was talking to the woman named Edna—and, realizing it was quite possible he was talking about me, I decided it would be prudent to listen in.

If I got caught, I could believably say I’d gotten all turned around.

I arrived at the large potted plant I’d noticed the night before, centered perfectly between both staircases. This spot was almost like a crossroads with the antechamber ending at a tall wall and a huge hallway that went two directions in what appeared to be an equal amount of space. I knew, from this spot, that the kitchen was to the right—which was west. Whittier’s voice seemed to be coming from the left—so I walked that way.

Instantly, I was grateful that I’d worn my sneakers. On all the surfaces in this home, they were quiet, unlike the heels I’d been wearing the night before, not having bothered to change before leaving. Just like where we’d entered last night, there was a hallway leading away from the antechamber to the back of the building, and I suspected that was where I’d heard his voice.

As I approached, he spoke again, confirming my theory. He was behind a closed door, and it didn’t take me any time at all to realize it was the one at the end of the hall, closest to me. I paused, holding my breath, waiting to hear if he said something else.

And he did. “I thought you’d be pleased.” There was a pause and I inched a little closer. When he spoke again, his voice was louder. “Because you talked of nothing else during that entire time. Again and again, you vowed revenge—and now that you have a chance, you want nothing to do with it. Unbelievable.”

Hmm. I shouldn’t be surprised that someone he worked closely with would seek vengeance for a supposed wrongdoing. That sounded pretty familiar.

After a long pause, he said, “I’ve already taken care of that—and if you don’t want anything to do with the Miller girl, I’ll deal with that too.”

Oh, shit. He was talking about me—but who was on the other side of the conversation?

And what did he mean by dealing with that?

I’d already felt cool on this floor from what no doubt was some sort of central air system—but now I felt chilled to the bone.

“All right. I’ll see you later.”

Suddenly, I panicked—because if he was ending the call, he could quickly leave the room and catch me listening with all but my ear pressed to the door. Quickly, I turned, reentering the big hallway to head toward the other side where I knew the entrance to the kitchen was—but I’d barely walked past the potted plant on its pedestal when I heard a door open.

Still, I wasn’t going to turn around. Instead, I slowed my pace to normal so it wouldn’t appear as if I was running away, guilty. I’d almost—almost—made it to the stairs on the other side when Sinclair Whittier’s voice boomed—and, just as I’d suspected, it echoed in the antechamber. “Ms. Miller, are you lost?”

The way he asked it indicated he knew I wasn’t…and that I’d been snooping a bit. So I decided to come clean.

Kind of.

Turning around, I faced him. He was wearing a black suit with a blue tie, rich leather black shoes, and the dark colors somehow emphasized his stern expression. I hated that he was so damn good-looking—and, even after everything that had happened between us thus far, I found myself smitten with his good looks. “No. I was just checking out this museum space behind the front doors.”

“It’s called an antechamber.”

“Hmm. You could probably fit a hundred homeless people in there comfortably when it gets cold outside.”

“And why would I want to do that? I donate to five different homeless shelters here.”

“That absolves you from feeling guilty about living in a museum?”

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