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"Mr. O'Neil." Her gaze flashed to the envelope he held in his hand, then to his face. "You should have telephoned first. I'm afraid my husband and I are expecting dinner guests."
Conor smiled pleasantly. "This won't take long."
He didn't wait for an invitation but pushed past her into the foyer. The painting of Miranda was gone. A watercolor in a heavy gilt frame hung in its place.
Eva brushed past him. "Indeed, it will not," she said briskly. "This way, please."
The library was the same as it had been weeks before. Once they were inside, she shut the door, folded her arms, and looked at him.
"Well? What is it that brings you here uninvited, Mr. O'Neil?"
"You're direct, Mrs. Winthrop. I admire that."
"And I admire brevity. What is the purpose of your visit?"
Conor smiled. "I was wondering... what was it like, at The Black Cat?"
The color drained from Eva's face. She seemed to age a dozen years as she staggered backwards to brace herself against the paneled wall.
"The what?"
"You're a good liar, Eva, but not good enough. Why did you lie about your birthplace?"
She stiffened, but only for a heartbeat. Then she reached past him and flung open the door.
"I think you'd better leave."
"It was stupid, pretending you were Argentinean, when the truth was so easy to discover." Conor opened the envelope and drew out a photo. "I have something for you. A little souvenir, you might say."
"Get out!"
"Come on, Eva, aren't you curious? It's a picture, from your country."
"My country," she said coldly, "is the United States of America. And I would remind you, Mr. O'Neil, that my husband is—"
She fell silent as Conor held out the photograph. Her gaze shot to it, then to his face.
"What—what is that?" she whispered.
"You tell me."
He lifted his arm and slowly waggled the photo back and forth. After a moment, Eva took it from him and looked at it. The sound of her breathing seemed to fill the room.
"Where did you get this?" she asked hoarsely.
"Someone had it delivered to your daughter this afternoon."
She nodded. "Well, I don't—I don't know why you've brought it to me." Her hand shook as she held out the photograph. "A picture of a street in the middle of nowhere..."
"It's over," he said, almost gently, and he slid the other photos from the envelope and held them in front of her.
She looked at him, and he could see the fear in her hazel eyes. He almost felt sorry for her.
"What's over? I don't know what you're talking about."
"If you tell me the truth, I may be able to help you."
"Why would I need your help? So I lied about my birthplace. Well, so what?" She slammed the door shut and leaned back against it, her posture one of regal defiance. "That was a long time ago. Is there a law that says Colombians can't enter the United States, especially when they're married to U.S. citizens?" Her chin lifted in a gesture that reminded him of Miranda. "We have friends in high places, Mr. O'Neil. Have you thought of what the president will say, when my husband informs him that you've been harassing me?"
