Chapter 5
The master bedroom was an immense sanctuary of cream damask, polished walnut, and vaulted ceilings. Floor-to-ceiling French doors led out onto a private stone terrace overlooking the dark pine woods of the estate.
The room was illuminated only by the faint golden glow of an antique banker’s lamp resting on the mahogany vanity.
The air was heavy, intoxicating, and unmistakable. It smelled of crushed gardenias, vintage ambergris, and the sharp, metallic tang of fresh blood.
Percival swept the room with his weapon raised, his slate-gray eyes clearing every corner in two seconds. The king-sized four-poster bed was undisturbed, its linen counterpane smooth. The walk-in cedar closets stood open, their hangers stripped bare.
In the center of the Persian rug, the velvet vanity stool was overturned on its side.
On the polished glass of the dressing table, an antique crystal bottle of gardenia perfume lay smashed into shards, its fragrant oil pooling over a scattered collection of cosmetics. And smeared directly across the center of the mirror in thick, dark crimson was a single, hurried sentence written with a trembling finger:
HE DID NOT BURY ME, PERCIVAL. HE SOLD ME.
"Jesus Christ," Garrick breathed from the doorway, raising his weapon toward the dark curtains.
Celandine stepped into the room, holding the wedding gown tightly to her chest. She pointed a shaking finger toward the French doors.
The heavy glass panels stood open to the autumn wind, the sheer white curtains billowing outward into the freezing night. The rain had begun to fall outside, misting the stone balustrade of the terrace.
Percival walked slowly across the rug, his polished leather shoes stopping before the shattered vanity mirror. He reached out with two gloved fingers, lightly touching the crimson lettering on the glass.
The blood was warm. It had been written less than five minutes ago.
Behind him, Isabetta stumbled into the doorway, her hands flying to her mouth as she saw the message on the glass. A strangled, half-choked shriek tore from her throat.
"No... no, this is impossible," Isabetta cried, backing away until her spine hit the doorframe. "She’s dead! Marcus watched the car burn! He brought the dental records to the Commission himself!"
Percival did not turn around. He lowered his pistol to his side, his eyes fixed on the mirror where his own reflection merged with the blood of his dead wife.
"Marcus," Percival murmured, his voice velvety and devoid of human warmth. "My younger brother. The man who introduced you to my dinner table six months ago."
Isabetta froze. The realization of what her panic had just surrendered hit her like an avalanche. Her eyes widened in sheer, naked terror as she looked from the mirror to the back of Percival’s head.
"Percival... wait," Isabetta stammered, raising her hands in desperate supplication. "That isn't what I meant! Marcus was the one who led the recovery team after the accident! You know he handled the logistics!"
Percival turned around with excruciating slowness.
His angular face was carved from granite, the dim light catching the sharp, dangerous lines of the tattoos along his neck.
"Marcus never called her Genevieve," Percival said softly, the controlled pauses between his words cutting through the room like a razor blade. "He called her the heiress. He called her the liability. But you just called her by the name she carried before she married me."
May you like
Percival stepped toward her.
"How did you know," Percival whispered, "that her name was Genevieve Marcus?"
