She does not, I notice with a deep and resounding pleasure, release my hand.
twenty-three
LIZZY
As the auctioneer’s mile-a-minute cadence charms and delights Killroy’s guests, including my sisters, Merrick and I engage in a different sort of game.
Alone on the second floor, we make quick work of our task, searching six bedrooms, a wall-to-wall aquarium, two rooms devoted entirely to families of antique porcelain dolls, and a small library containing enough rare books to give the demon a hard-on, none of which are relevant to our cause.
The primary bedroom yields no secrets either, but Idodiscover and liberate a pretty sweet collection of pharmaceuticals, stuffed into my purse for further analysis at the lab. The lab being my bedroom. Which, judging from the looks Merrick keeps giving me, might be a little less cold and lonely tonight.
Or maybe he’s just thinking about those rare books.
Another shiver overtakes me. I can still feel him, everywhere we touched. Can still taste his breath on my lips, warm and soft and inviting.
I’m thinking I’d really like to kiss you…
Nope! Not going there right now. It’s hard enough playing spy games in a dress and heels. Let’s not add flambéed panties to the mix.
After ransacking another useless doll depository and a ridiculously extravagant second-floor kitchen—seriously, rich people need better hobbies—we finally locate a study, complete with requisite leather furniture and a mahogany desk the size of a boat.
“Jackpot,” I whisper, and we’re in, pulling the door shut behind us. We work efficiently, skimming over volumes of dusty law books, hideous sculptures, and a closet full of shoe boxes containing mountains of receipts for—wait for it—antique dolls.
Seriously, the guy has a major stiffy for creepy-ass dolls. Which, although disturbing in its own special way, is not the smoking magical gun we’re looking for.
Most of the desk drawers hold what appear to be legitimate client files detailing various estate holdings, contact information, and notes about potential buyers. There’s another drawer stuffed with phone chargers and random computer cables. A stack of utility bills. A letter opener. A coffee mug filled with pens.
Nothing out of the ordinary.
From the last big drawer at the bottom, Merrick pulls out a thick stack of manilla folders.
“Anything interesting?” I’m starting to lose hope.
“Just a series of business agreements.” He flips through the first few folders. “Looks like Killroy’s contracting with a number of other law firms.” He pages through a few more, reading off names. “Banks and Riddick, agreement for unspecified consultation services. Polaski, Stearns, and Foley, unspecified consultation services. Barnaby Briggs, same. The Kensington Group, same. Michaels and?—”
“Wait… What did you say?” That now-familiar iciness slips over my skin.
“Michaels and Storm?”
“Before that.”
“The Kensington Group? Looks like a corporate firm out of Los Angeles.” He pulls out the contract, skims the pages. “Another ’consultation’ agreement light on the details, heavy on the bullshit. Certain tax and regulatory authorities might find the contents of this desk interesting, but I’m not seeing anything we can—Elizabeth? What’s wrong?”
Thoughts collide in my brain, desperately trying to make the pieces fit. “That guy from before? The one bugging me in the hallway?”
The muscle in his jaw feathers.
“His name is Brendan Hayes.” The name tastes like tar on my tongue. “He’s a lawyer with The Kensington Group.”
Merrick places a hand on my shoulder, warm and reassuring, but it’s not enough to chase away the dread. “I will happily remove him from the premises the moment we finish our duties.”
I shake my head, still trying to make sense of this. Why would Brendan’s firm have a contract with Killroy? Kensington doesn’t even do estate law. They’re all corporate.
I pick up the contract, glance through it for myself. It’s dated over a year ago.
“Elizabeth, you look as though you’ve seen a ghost.”
“Not a ghost, Merrick. My ex.”
