“It looks like she’s going to try to eat his heart.”
Alex stuck the hoops in her ears and blotted her lips with a tissue. “Just right.”
“Feb Club is almost over,” said Mercy. Every night in February, some group or
organization hosted an event, a protest against the deep gloom of winter. “We should hit
the last party on Friday.”
“Should we?” Alex asked, wondering if Mercy was really ready for that.
“Yeah,” said Mercy. “I’m not saying we should stay long or anything, but … I want to
go. Maybe I’ll borrow your lipstick.”
Alex grinned and took out her phone to request a ride. “Then we’re definitely going.” If
I’m still a Yale student tomorrow. “Don’t wait up, Ma.”
“You beautiful slut,” said Lauren.
“Be careful,” said Mercy.
“Tell him to be careful,” said Alex, and locked the door behind her.
She had the driver drop her off at the stone columns of Black Elm and walked up the
long driveway on foot. The garage was open, and Alex could see Darlington’s burgundy
Mercedes parked inside.
Lights shone from the first and second stories of the house, and Alex saw Dawes through the kitchen window, stirring something on the stove. As soon as she entered, she
recognized the lemony smell. Avgolemono. Darlington’s favorite.
“You’re early,” said Dawes over her shoulder. “You look nice.”
“Thanks,” Alex said, feeling suddenly shy. Had the earrings and the lipstick been her
version of lemon soup?
Alex stripped off her coat and hung it on a hook by the door. She wasn’t sure what to
expect from the night, but she wanted a chance to search Darlington’s office and bedroom
before the others arrived. She was glad Dawes had turned all the lights on. The last time
she’d been here, the loneliness of the place had overwhelmed her.
Alex checked the office first, a room of wood paneling and packed bookshelves located
just off of the pretty sunroom where she’d written her report for Sandow on Tara’s death.
The desk was fairly well organized, but its file cabinets just seemed to be full of documents pertaining to Black Elm. In the top drawer, Alex found an old-fashioned datebook and a crushed pack of Chesterfields. She couldn’t imagine Darlington taking a drag on a bargain smoke.
Her search through his monk’s chamber on the third floor was equally fruitless. Cosmo
followed her inside and stared at her judgmentally as she pulled open drawers and thumbed through stacks of books.
“Yes, I’m violating his privacy, Cosmo,” she said. “But it’s for a good cause.”
Apparently that was enough for the cat, who twined through Alex’s legs, pressing his
head against her combat boots and purring loudly. She gave him a scratch between the ears as she flipped through the books piled closest to Darlington’s bed—all of them devoted to New England industry. She paused on what looked like an old carriage catalog,
the paper yellowing and torn at the edges, sealed in a plastic baggie to protect it from the
elements. North’s family had been carriage makers.
Alex removed it carefully from the bag. On closer inspection it seemed to be a kind of newsy trade magazine for the various carriage makers in New Haven and the businesses
that supported them. There were hand-drawn pictures of wheels and locking mechanisms
and lanterns and, on the third page, an announcement in large bold type of the construction
of North & Sons’ brand-new factory, which would be fronted by a showroom for prospective buyers. In the margin, in Darlington’s distinctive scrawl, was a note that read:
the first?
“That’s it? Come on, Darlington. The first what?”
Alex heard the sound of tires on gravel and looked down to the driveway to see headlights from two cars—a slightly beat-up Audi and, close behind it, a shiny blue Land
Rover.
The Audi pulled into the garage beside Darlington’s Mercedes, and a moment later
Alex saw Dean Sandow and a woman who had to be Michelle Alameddine emerge. Alex
wasn’t sure what she’d expected, but the girl looked perfectly ordinary. Thick curls in a tangle around her shoulders, an angular face with elegantly manicured brows. She wore a