Page 110 of The Girl Who Knew Too Much

“Lucky for you, you’ve got other talents,” she said.

Chapter 50

She awoke to find herself alone in the bed. The sheets were still warm from Oliver’s body heat. She waited a moment to see if he would return. But the clink of crystal on glass in the living room told her that he expected to be gone for a while.

She pushed aside the covers, stood, and pulled on her robe. She made her way down the darkened hall and stopped at the entrance of the moon-shadowed living room. At first she did not see him.

“Didn’t mean to wake you,” he said.

He spoke from the depths of the big, leather-upholstered reading chair. He was wearing a dark robe. His feet were bare. The moonlight slanted across his injured leg propped on the hassock.

She moved across the room and sat down in the other reading chair.

“How bad is it?” she asked.

“No worse than usual,” Oliver said.

He swallowed some of the whiskey in his glass. It was clear that her question had irritated him.

She started to apologize for inquiring about the level of his discomfort but stopped herself in the nick of time.

“It wasn’t the leg that woke me,” he said after a while. “It was Enright.”

“Do you think we’re wrong about him?”

“No. What I’m thinking is that we need to move fast if we’re going to trap him. We need to come up with a way to force his hand. Can’t risk letting him take the initiative.”

“What if there’s nothing to our suspicions?” Irene said. “What if he really is just a rich, starstruck tourist who managed to charm a famous star?”

“If that’s the case, he won’t take the bait.”

“What bait?”

“The notebook. He won’t want to take the chance of losing it again. We’ll need to set the stage. Get the props and the lighting in place. I’ll talk to Chester and Luther in the morning.”

“And me,” Irene said. “You’ll talk to me, too. This is my problem and my story.”

“Don’t worry, you will be a critical part of the act.”

“You’ve got a plan?”

“I think so, yes.”

“Tell me.”

He did. When he was finished, she took a deep breath and released it slowly.

“That is... very daring,” she said. “And risky.”

“Like any good illusion, it is actually very simple technically.”

“It relies on your read of Enright. If you’re wrong—”

“No.” Oliver drank some more whiskey and lowered the glass. “Tonight he confirmed everything I sensed about him. He’s cold-blooded, arrogant, and impulsive.”

Irene shivered. “I wonder how many people he has murdered.”

“We’ll probably never know,” Oliver said, “but I very much doubt that Helen Spencer was the first.”

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