She raised her glass.

“Johnny.”

“Selena.”

“May a flock of blessings light upon thy back.”

“Ah, Shakespeare. Lovely.”

Letty watched as he polished off the last two ounces of his wine. They sat on the sofa. Fitch opened the scotch and poured them each two fingers into heavy tumblers.

He put his arm around Letty. She cuddled in close. He went on for a minute about the rarity of this spirit they were about to imbibe. He was drunk, beginning to ramble. She finally sipped the scotch. It was good. Better than any whiskey she’d ever tasted, but she hadn’t lied. She just wasn’t a scotch girl.

After awhile, he said, “Everything I’ve ever done, I’ve done for my family, Selena. Everything.”

Sitting with Fitch on the sofa, it hit her again. That old, familiar enemy. Regret. Guilt. Her conscience. Truth was, she liked Fitch. If for no other reason than he was facing a lifetime behind bars with grace. Making the most of his final hours of freedom. She tried to remind herself of all the people Fitch had hurt. And it wasn’t like he’d be hanging this painting she was about to steal on the walls of his prison cell.

But the arguments rang hollow. Insincere.

After a while, she felt his head dip toward hers.

He was saying something about his family, about how everything had always been for them. His eyes were wet. He didn’t sound drunk so much as sleepy.

Letty set her glass on the coffee table and eased Fitch’s out of his grasp.

“What’re you doing?” he slurred.

Letty stood and took him by the hand. She pulled him up off the couch.

“Come with me,” she whispered.

“My drink.” His eyes were heavy.

“You can always finish your drink.” She pressed up against him and wrapped her arms around his neck. “Don’t you want me, Johnny?” She kissed him with passion this time—open-mouthed and long. Hoped it would give him enough of a charge to make it into bed.

She led him through the living room.

“Where’s your room?” she whispered, even though she knew from the blueprints that it was very likely the large master suite on this level. He pointed toward the opening to a hallway just behind the spiral staircase.

They stumbled down a wide corridor. The walls were covered with photos of Fitch’s family. One in particular caught Letty’s eye as she passed by. It had been taken out on the deck of this house fifteen, maybe twenty, years ago—a much younger Fitch standing with three teenage boys. All shirtless and tanned. Mrs. Fitch in a bathing suit. The sea empty, huge and glittering behind them.

Letty dragged Fitch through the doorway of his bedroom and shut the door behind them. The suite was sprawling. There was a flat-screen television mounted to the wall across from the bed. A bookcase. A small desk, where she spotted a laptop, cell phone and empty wineglass. Floor-to-ceiling windows looked out over the dock. French doors opened onto the deck. She couldn’t see the moon from here, but she could see its light falling on the sea.

“Go lie down,” she said.

Fitch staggered toward the bed.

Letty took her time pulling the curtains.

Fitch mumbled, “You’re so…beautiful.”

“That’s what my daddy used to tell me.” She could feel the rush of adrenaline cutting through her intoxication. “I just need to step into your bathroom for a moment,” she said. “I’ll be right out. You get comfortable.”

He said, “We don’t have to do anything. Unless you want to.” The words came too soft, too muddled.

Letty walked into the bathroom. She shut the door, hit the light.

It was bigger than most apartments she’d lived in. Leaning over the sink, she studied her pupils in the mirror. They were black and huge. She sat down on the toilet and took a deep breath. All the things she needed to do in the next forty-five minutes pressed down on her. She took herself through all the steps. Pictured it happening perfectly.

Five minutes passed.

She went to the door.

Pulled it open as softly as she could manage and slipped back into Fitch’s room.

The wood-paneled walls now glowed with a soft warmth from candles on the bedside tables. They smelled like vanilla. The hardwood creaked as she crossed to the foot of Fitch’s bed.

The old man lay on his back with his arms and legs spread out. His shirt was unbuttoned, his pants pulled down to his knees. It was as far as he’d gotten. He snored quietly, his chest rising and falling.

He looked tragic.

“Bye, Johnny,” Letty whispered.

Then she moaned several times.

Full-voiced and throaty.

Hoping that would keep Fitch’s men away from his room for the time being.

CHAPTER TEN

The bedroom door opened smoothly, without a sound. She moved in bare feet down the corridor. All of the doors she passed were cracked. The rooms, dark. Where the hallway opened into the main living area, she stopped. The spiral staircase was straight ahead, but hushed voices crept around a blind corner. It sounded like they were coming from the kitchen. For a moment, she stood listening. Two men. They were eating, probably picking through the leftovers.

Letty went quietly up the staircase, taking the steps two at a time.

Near the top, she caught a view down into the kitchen. It was James and some other black-suited man with long hair who she hadn’t seen before. They stood at the counter, dipping crackers into the foie gras.

She came to the second floor. A long hallway, empty and dark, branched off from either side of the spiral staircase. The blueprints had indicated that this level housed four bedrooms, two bathrooms and a study. Letty kept climbing, using the iron railing as a guide. The noise of the men in the kitchen fell farther and farther away. By the time she reached the final step, she couldn’t even hear them.

Letty stepped into the cupola of the house.

Because three of the walls consisted entirely of windows, the moonlight poured inside like a floodlight.

Letty ripped off the wig. She ran her hands carefully through her hair until her fingers found the razor blade.

Padding over to the desk, she turned on a lamp.

Her watch read 7:45.

She stared up at the wall above the desk.

What the hell?

She’d been expecting to see the Van Gogh—a skeleton smoking a cigarette. What hung on the wall was an acrylic of a horse. Maudlin colors. Proportions all wrong. She was no art critic, but she felt certain this painting was very badly done.

Leaning in close, she read the artist’s signature in the bottom right-hand corner of the canvas.

Margaret Fitch.

Letty sat down in the leather chair behind the desk. Her head felt dizzy and untethered. Had Javier told her the wrong place to look? Had she somehow misunderstood him? No, this was Fitch’s office. In fact, there should be a plastic tube taped beneath the desktop. She reached under, groping in the darkness. All she felt was the underside of the middle drawer.

Assumptions.

Somewhere, she’d made a false one.

The blueprints had identified the cupola as an office, but maybe Fitch’s was actually down on the second floor.

That had to be it.

She spun the swivel chair around and started to rise.

Took in a hard, fast breath instead.

A shadow stood at the top of the spiral staircase, watching her.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

For a long minute, Letty couldn’t move.

Her heart banged in her chest like a mental patient in a rubber room.

“Dear old Mom did that one,” Fitch said, “God rest her soul.” He pointed to the painting of the horse behind his desk. “She gave it to me for Christmas fifteen years ago. I hated it at the time, and with good reason. Let’s be honest. It’s hideous. So I kept it in a closet, except for when she visited. Then I’d have to swap out my Van Gogh for that monstrosity. Make sure she noticed it proudly displayed in my office.”