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A s if reading her mind, Royce glanced behind him. Studying her face, he reached out to capture her hand, gently leading her the remaining steps to her room.
They stopped in the open doorway.
Breanna crossed the threshold, and prickles of fear shot up her spine. The room she'd always regarded as a sanctuary was now a place to fear. Numbly, she wondered if she'd ever feel safe within it again.
“They're on the nightstand,” she told Royce, halting just inside. “Both of them.”
He gripped her elbow, drew her into the room. “I'm here,” he said softly.
“I know,” she replied, understanding just what Royce's assurances were meant to convey, and why he was offering them. “And you need me to be here, too. I have to come in— all the way in—or I can't help you, and you can't do your job.” She forced herself to move deeper into her chambers, walking toward her bed as if in a dream. “There.” She pointed at the nightstand, her head swimming with reaction. “Those are the things he left me.”
Royce went ahead, examining the chemise and porcelain figure in the glow of lamplight. His expression was intense, never changing as he inspected the tainted objects more closely. 'This chemise—is it yours?”
“Yes. I recognize the buttons. It's mine.”
A nod. “The color is only paint. Not blood.”
“I realize that. And the women are only porcelain, not human. But the message is clear nonetheless.”
Royce's mouth thinned into a grim line. “It certainly is.” He straightened, scanning the rest of the quarters. “Was anything else disturbed?”
Breanna studied the room as closely as her dazed mind would allow. She slid open each bureau drawer, cheeked inside her wardrobe and nightstand, even scrutinized each and every one of her porcelain figures. “Nothing else was touched—nothing I can detect.”
“And nothing's missing?”
“No.” Breanna crossed over to her desk, picked up the sketch pad and flipped through it. None of the drawings of Stacie's house had been tainted, no pages torn away. Beside the pad, her pile of unrelated sketches was stacked neatly, just as it had been earlier.
She eased open the desk drawers. Each one was precisely as she'd left it, all her quills and pencils intact. “It looks as if he only took the chemise.”
“What about the statue? Was it originally on your nightstand? Or did he remove it from the bureau or fireplace mantel in order to place it beside the chemise?”
“Neither. It isn't mine. I've never seen it before in my life.”
That detail seemed to disturb Royce more than anything else. His dark brows drew together, and his eyes narrowed in troubled concentration.
“What is it?” Breanna asked. “Why does that upset you so much?”
Royce opened his mout
h to reply, then hesitated, reluctance written all over his face.
“Please, Royce,” she requested quietly. “Don't hide things from me. I don't want to be protected. I want to know. I need to know. Why are you bothered by the fact that that porcelain figure isn't mine?”
His sober gaze met hers. “Because the fact that he chose to bring such a statue here, to use it to make his point, is too perfect to be a coincidence. He obviously knew you collect porcelain figures.”
“How would he know ... ?” All the color drained from Breanna's face. “You think he was here before this? That he'd invaded my room before tonight?”
An unwilling nod. “My guess is, yes. It would explain the appearance of this statue. It would also explain how he found the time to deface your chemise. He wouldn't want to carry paint with him, nor would he want to linger an instant longer than necessary. So he didn't. He probably slipped into your room at an earlier date—most likely before the additional guards were assigned—took the chemise, and left. He did his handiwork on it at home, bought and defiled the statue, then placed both things on your nightstand tonight. He wouldn't need more than five minutes to accomplish that.”
Breanna could feel her insides lurch, and for one horrible moment she was afraid she was going to be sick. “He was here,” she whispered. Awareness dawned, crept through her like some odious insect. That feeling she'd had—that nagging perception that had plagued her all week—it hadn't been groundless.
It had been accurate.
“I sensed it.” Her panicked gaze darted about the room. “Ever since the day Mr. Knox was killed. I thought I was overreacting. But I couldn't shake the uneasy feeling that came over me every time I was in my room. I tried to attribute it to nerves, but after what you just said...” She broke off, pressing her palms together as if the very action could hold her emotions in check. “I know he was here.”
“The day Knox was killed?” Royce jumped on her words, contemplated them thoroughly before giving a hard nod. “That makes sense. A lot of sense. The killer could have slipped in here that afternoon, taken the chemise, and been in the process of leaving the grounds when Knox came upon him. It would explain why Knox got shot.”
“But why did the killer come here?” Breanna felt cold, so very cold—a chill that radiated from the inside out. “Just to take something that belonged to me? Or did he come to shoot me and, when my being out strolling the grounds made that impossible, settled for stealing my chemise to torture me instead?”
