Page 7 of The Lost Heiress
Ana let out a low whistle when they entered the room. It was the biggest, most luxurious bedroom she had ever seen. There was a four-poster bed dressed with silk sheets and piled high with throw pillows, a tall rosewood dresser, a full-length mirror, a writing desk, and, in the corner, a sitting area next to a fireplace, complete with a sofa and reading chairs. There was a private bathroom with a soaking tub, a pedestal sink, and French doors that led out onto a veranda that overlooked the garden. And somehow, her suitcase and duffel bag were already there, sitting neatly at the foot of her bed.
“I take it the room is to your liking?” Mrs. Talbot asked.
It’s a bit much for one person,Ana wanted to say, but she’d gotten the sense that Mrs. Talbot took great pride in the house and the family, as if they were extensions of herself, so she bit her tongue.
“The room’s love—” Ana said and then caught herself. “The room’s great.”
“The maid will be in every morning at ten a.m. to clean and bring fresh towels,” Mrs. Talbot said. “If you’ve forgotten anything, just let the maid know, and she’ll get it for you. Would you like a moment to freshen up before you meet Miss Saoirse?”
“Yes, actually, if you don’t mind,” Ana said. “It was kind of a long drive.”
“Very well,” Mrs. Talbot said. “I’ll meet you at the bottom of the stairs in fifteen minutes to make the proper introductions.”
“I’ll be ready,” Ana said, giving her a compliant smile.
Ana waited until Mrs. Talbot had left and closed the door behind her before hurrying over to her duffel bag. She thrust it onto the bed and unzipped it. Half in a panic, she pulled out her toiletries bag that was sitting on top and tossed it carelessly onto the bedcover next to her. Her hands groped blindly through her pile of T-shirts and jeans until she found her nightgown at the bottom, balled up—or, rather, wrapped tightly around something small, compact, and heavy. She pulled it out and unwrapped it—nested inside the cloth gown was a matte black snub-nosed revolver.
Ana placed the gun carefully on the bed beside her and felt around in her duffel bag for her socks next, searching for the only pair of thick wool ones she had brought with her. When her fingers found purchase on the scratchy cloth, she pulled them out and released the fat, squat cartridges that she had tucked inside onto the bedcover—five in all, as many as the revolver would hold.
Ana surveyed the room. She needed a place to hide them, somewhere the maid wouldn’t happen upon while cleaning. Across the room, next to the fireplace, she spotted a copper bucket piled with logs. It occurred to her that this was the perfect hiding place—no one would have any reason to disturb that bucket this time of year. It was in the dead heat of summer, after all. There would be no need for a fire.
Ana made quick work of removing the logs and placing the gun and the sock full of cartridges at the bottom. Then she stacked the logs back on top just as she had found them and checked her watch. Somehow, ten minutes had already gone by. She had better make her way to the staircase to meet Mrs. Talbot; she didn’t want to be late. She had already made too many missteps today—she couldn’t afford another one.
Ana could feel her heart beating in her chest, a loud thundering thud. She glanced at her reflection in the mirror above the fireplace and took a deep breath to steady herself.
“You can do this,” she told herself, but the girl staring back at her didn’t look like she believed her.
She had plaited her hair into a French braid this morning after her shower, when it was still wet. It had looked immaculate then, her dark hair in crisp, clean lines, everything lying flat. But since then, her hair had dried, and the braid looked messy now, a bunch of flyaways crowning the top of her head.
Her reflection disheartened her—standing there with her messy braid, in the striped shirt and overalls that were wrinkled now from the drive, and without a stitch of makeup, she looked so young. And plain. And out of place with the Versailles-like background of the room behind her. What was she doing here?
Frustrated, she tried to pat her hair flat, but the gesture didn’t do any good—her flyaways defiantly stood up straight as soon as she took her hand away. Ah, well. There was nothing she could do about it now. There was nothing she could do about any of it, except to move forward. She turned and took a step toward the door.
It was time to meet her charge.
Chapter Two
Present
Detective Michael Church knew the Towerses’ place from a distance. Everybody along the Central Coast did, and he had grown up just south in Morro Bay. It was hard to miss the thing when driving up the Pacific Coast Highway, the giant stone building, which looked more like a museum than a personal residence, standing by itself on the bluff. Staring up at the stone facade from the back seat of his mother’s car as she drove him to T-ball practice, he’d imagined that the house was a castle, that King Arthur and his knights lived there, protecting the town from evil. Of course, he had stopped believing in all that a long time ago—in fairy tales, or God, or that any benevolent being was watching out for them. After the things he had seen, either there wasn’t a God, or he wasn’t benevolent.
As Detective Church pulled up to the front gate of the Towers family home, he cursed under his breath at the sight of the reporters and photographers camped out front. There was a patrol officer posted at the gate—Deputy McPherson—and Church stopped and lowered his driver’s side window to speak with him.
“Jesus Christ,” Church said.
Deputy McPherson shook his head. “Total shitstorm, I’m telling you, Church. Never seen anything like it. And now they’ve got eyes in the sky.”
Church squinted upward. The sky was a weak pale-blue this morning, without a single wisp of cloud. “How many?” he asked.
“Counted three news choppers so far today,” McPherson said. “I just hope they got my good side.”
The deputy waved him through, and Church inched forward as the gates opened. The reporters slowly parted around the hood of his truck, their microphones pointed hungrily at his windshield, their barrage of questions muted by the glass.
Getting a sit-down with Ransom Towers—SenatorTowers now—had proven trickier for Detective Church than he had imagined it would be. Twice now the senator’s assistant had scheduled and then rescheduled for Senator Towers to come down to the station and talk. Just this morning, their interview had gotten moved again—but this time, Senator Towers couldn’t make it down to the station at all. He had another obligation. Would Detective Church mind coming to Cliffhaven instead?
Church did mind, quite a bit. He preferred the sterility of the station’s interrogation room—the bland linoleum flooring and laminate table, the plastic vinyl chairs. There was nothing to distract the interviewee there—no clock marking the passage of time, no barking dogs or ringing doorbells at inopportune moments. The interrogation room at the station was a quiet, unhurried, controlled environment. But Church had to take what he could get.
When Detective Church arrived at Cliffhaven, he was escorted to the senator’s in-home office by his assistant, Robin, an androgynous twentysomething redhead who wore an earpiece that she was perpetually speaking into, so Church was never quite sure if she was talking to him or not. She gave two brisk knocks at the open door to the senator’s office on the second floor and then walked inside, announcing, “Senator, your two o’clock appointment is here—Detective Church.”
