With her hands pushed deep into her jacket pockets to fend off the damp chill of the unseasonably cold Spring day, Nancy waited on the sidewalk for someone to open the main door of the apartment building.
Step one.
She didn’t have to wait long, as a food delivery guy on a moped drove right up onto the sidewalk, hopped off, and went to press the buzzer for whoever was about to get Thai food for lunch. Nancy’s mouth watered at the thought, her stomach growling so loudly she worried it might alert the guy to her presence.
But with his motorcycle helmet on, it was clear he hadn’t heard a thing as the door buzzed and in he went, fragrant bag of goodies in hand. Nancy walked quickly to catch the door before it closedagain, and made her way up the stairs to the apartment where she wasn’texactlyinvited to nose around.
Tapping into old skills that used to get her into abandoned warehouses and condemned houses and high school after dark, she discreetly picked the lock with a kit she’d bought off the internet.
Her old kit had been confiscated eleven years ago, the very last time she was hauled into a police station, and her poor social worker had to be dragged in to explain that she was a “good kid, really,” even though the line was way past believable with every addition to her rap sheet. The kit had never been returned.
A flutter of excitement churned like indigestion in her stomach as the door clicked. After a year of hitting dead ends, she felt like she’d finally found a hidden trapdoor.
“Now then, what secrets are we hiding?” she whispered as she pushed her glasses up the bridge of her nose and stepped inside, quietly closing the door behind her.
The apartment was surprisingly… normal: a short hallway led to a kitchen-slash-living room, and then, two doors further on, a bedroom and a bathroom, most probably. It was what an estate agent would have called compact or cozy, but the layout wasn’t what Nancy had come here for.
With a frown, she sniffed. A faint citrus scent tickled her nostrils.
Lysol?
According to her investigation and the timeline of Adeline Clark’s last known whereabouts, the apartment hadn’t been lived in for pretty much three years. So, why on earth did it smell like it had been recently cleaned? Sure, Lysol was fairly heavy on the perfume, but not enough to last three years.
She crouched down and swept her finger across the floor. No dust, either.
Puzzled, she peeked into the kitchen and living room. Everything was in its place, not even a stray drip from a faucet, as if it had been staged for viewings.
But, of course, Nancy knew that wasn’t the case. It hadn’t been rented out to anyone. In fact, the ownership was kind of murky; it belonged to this weird investment company, but Adeline’s name was on the deed.
Moving down the hallway, she eased open the first door she came to. The bedroom was pristine, with the faint aroma of Lysol lingering here as well.
“Good taste,” Nancy murmured, noting the novels on the bedside table.
Two small bookcases stood in the corner of the room, so crammed with books that the shelves had begun to bow. All except three books on the top of the bookcase, which stoodalone: beautiful and leatherbound, clearly prized by the woman who hadn’t been seen for three years.
Nancy rose slightly on tiptoe to reach them and imagined Adeline doing the same thing, though Adeline was a couple of inches shorter. One book was on its side, a weighty copy ofGray’s Anatomy. Fitting for a doctor. The other two were less predictable:Jane Eyreby Charlotte Brontë, andThe Tenant of Wildfell Hallby Anne Brontë.
As she carefully plucked them off the bookcase, something fell out ofGray’s Anatomy.Two slips of paper, one so yellowed and old that Nancy flinched, fearing it might crumble as soon as it hit the floor, the other fairly new.
Setting the books on the little reading chair nearby, she crouched to pick up the slips of paper… and furrowed her brow.
The time-stamped note said: “Tell Emma that Charlotte loved the drawing.”
But the writing didn’t look ancient at all, with the fat letters and loops of a more modern cursive.
The newer note, however, was the one that rocked her.
Look for the Hawk. Might help with the book.
“What the hell?” she whispered as she whipped her phone out of her pocket and opened her messages to the last one Emily had sent before radio silence.
I won’t be gone long. You can survive a month without me. I’m just so stuck with this book, and my agent and the publisher are going to have my ass if I don’t deliver soon. This Hawk Laird was a bad inspiration choice. Should’ve just made someone up.
Nancy’s eyes flitted between her phone and the note. It couldn’t be a coincidence, could it?
But then, if it wasn’t a coincidence, whywasthere a note here that looked as if it had been written specifically for Emily? How many people could possibly be writing a book about a laird in medieval Scotland called ‘the Hawk’ at the same time?
“What is going on, Em?” she muttered. “Do you knowthe Clark sisters? Did Adeline leave this note for you?”
