“How is that possible?”
Gabriel’s face grew grim. “I don’t know.”
Julia rocked the baby, back and forth. “He didn’t take any jewelry. He didn’t even open the box.”
“Cash, passports, electronics, artwork—everything is still here. The police are dusting for fingerprints.”
“He was wearing gloves.”
Gabriel froze. “Did he touch you?”
“No,” Julia whispered. “When I woke up, I saw him holding the Holiday painting. I saw the gloves.”
“When I went upstairs, the painting was on the floor. The glass shattered.”
“He dropped it when I screamed.”
“But you’re all right?” Gabriel croaked. He reached a hand out to caress Clare’s head. “Clare is all right?”
“I don’t think he went into the nursery. The door was still closed and I hadn’t heard anything on the baby monitor.”
Gabriel passed a hand over his mouth. Things could have ended very, very differently.
“I’m sorry about the painting.”
Gabriel squeezed her knee. “Better the painting than you!”
Julia took his hand and tugged him to sit next to her. She leaned into his side, shaking.
He wrapped both arms around her shoulders. “You’re going to be fine. You’re going to be fine and Clare is going to be fine.”
“I thought he’d taken her.” A tear streaked down Julia’s face. “I thought you’d had a heart attack.”
“I was just winded. But I could use a shot of Laphroaig right now.”
“Me, too.”
“I’ll get you one.” He spoke against her skin.
“I don’t think nursing mothers are supposed to drink Laphroaig. But if I weren’t nursing, hell yeah I’d be drinking your campfire Scotch.”
It was not appropriate to laugh and Gabriel knew it. He held her close and restrained his laughter. “I don’t have any Laphroaig. But if you want a drink, I’ll get you one.”
“Maybe later.” The baby stirred against Julia’s shoulder.
“Do you want me to take her? She must be getting heavy.”
Julia shook her head. “I need to hold her.”
“Mr. Emerson?” A plainclothes detective approached him. “Can I see you for a minute?”
“Of course.” Gabriel kissed his wife and followed the detective into the kitchen.
Julia continued to rock back and forth, praying everything would be over soon. It was three o’clock in the morning and she wanted to go back to sleep. But not here, not with a disabled security system and the painting of Dante and Beatrice broken upstairs.
A few minutes later, Gabriel returned. “It looks like the intruder came in through the garden. He hopped the fence and crossed the yard to the back door, leaving footprints in the snow.”
Gabriel noted Julia’s rocking motion. “Why don’t you lie down? I’ll take Clare.”
“I don’t want to stay here another minute.” She swayed to her feet.
“Okay.” Gabriel scratched the stubble on his face. “We’ll go to a hotel. Do you want to pack a bag?”
“I don’t want to go upstairs by myself.” Julia’s voice was very small. It almost broke Gabriel’s heart.
“I’ll go with you. Let me tell the detective.” Gabriel returned to the kitchen for a moment and then walked back to Julia. He took Clare into his arms. “I’ll carry her up the stairs. I’m sorry I fell asleep at my desk. I should have come to bed.”
“I’m okay,” Julia’s voice grew steely. “But I have to get out of here.”
“I’ll call the Lenox as soon as we get upstairs. Pack whatever you will need for a day or two. I’ll call the security company and let them know we’re leaving.”
Julia nodded. At that moment, all she cared about was getting herself and her child out of the house. The security company was doing too little, too late.
Gabriel ascended the staircase with Julia close behind.
* * *
While Julianne stood in the closet, packing for herself and Clare, Gabriel put the baby in her playpen. She was still asleep.
Gabriel crossed himself and said a silent prayer of thanks.
He walked over to his nightstand and was about to pick up his phone charger when he stepped on something.
“Son of a . . .” Gabriel lifted his foot in order to see what he’d stepped on.
“Are you okay?” Julia stuck her head out of the closet.
“I’m fine. It’s nothing.”
Julia returned to her packing.
Crouching down, Gabriel saw that he’d stepped on what looked like a small sculpture. He retrieved a tissue from the nightstand and picked up the object.
The sculpture was grotesque—a small, two-headed bust with a skull on one side and a face on the other. Gabriel turned the object over, careful to keep it covered by tissue. Letters had been carved into it: O Mors quam amara est memoria tua.
Gabriel knew without doubt the object wasn’t his. It didn’t belong to Julianne, either. Such objects had been popular in the Middle Ages and the Renaissance, as a kind of reminder of one’s mortality: O Death, how bitter is your memory. Remember you must die.
The piece he’d stepped on was finely crafted and old. To his untrained eye, at least, it seemed to be of museum quality. Since it was unlikely the Cambridge police kept such mementoes in their pockets, only one other person could have dropped it.
“I’m almost done,” Julianne called. She entered the bathroom and closed the door.
Gabriel covered the carving with more tissue and placed it in his briefcase with his laptop. Although it was possible the intruder had dropped the piece accidentally, it was equally possible it had been left on Gabriel’s nightstand, mere inches from his pillow, as a warning.
As such, and given the medium of the message, Gabriel elected not to share his finding with Cambridge’s finest. Instead, he was going to share the discovery with someone else.
Chapter Forty-Seven
What about your family? Are they all right?” Nicholas Cassirer sounded horrified.
“Julianne is shaken, but they’re fine.” Gabriel carefully closed the door of the bathroom in their hotel suite, so as not to disturb them.