Copper Lake Confidential - By Marilyn Pappano Page 0,32
cough, then sucked in air audibly.
The only thing on the coffee table was an arrangement of roses. There was no contract.
“It has to be—” Carefully setting the coffee down, she paced around the couch, went to the chair where she’d sat during Louise’s visit, checked the entire area. Maybe she’d knocked it off when she’d left the room earlier. Maybe she’d set it somewhere besides the coffee table. Maybe—
Squeezing her eyes shut, hugging herself tightly, she replayed the visit in her memory. Louise handing her the contract, herself holding it without looking at it, then setting it on the table. Louise saying keep it, then showing herself out. Macy thinking in the silence that they thought she was the crazy one. Walking out of the room to get back to her packing.
She had left it on the coffee table. She was certain of it.
Just as certain as she was that it wasn’t there now.
Efforts to control the panic building inside her as she headed toward the kitchen failed. By the time she reached the island, she was frantic. She’d made a point of leaving all her papers there—inventories, notes, any records she came across that she wanted to keep.
There was no contract.
She’d packed in one of the guest rooms after Louise left. Taking the stairs at a run left her breathless, but that was nothing compared with the emptiness of her lungs when she found no contract there, either.
Not in the other guest room. Not in her bedroom. Not in her bathroom. Not in Clary’s room. Not in the dining room. Not in the family room. Still not in the living room or kitchen.
There was only one room she hadn’t checked: Mark’s office. It was just down the hall, the doorway under the stairs. The sheriff’s department had searched it after his death, along with his office in town, but they’d found nothing of interest. If he’d kept records or mementos of his killings, he’d hidden them well.
The contract couldn’t be in there. She hadn’t even looked at the closed door. Though she had to deal with the room eventually, she planned on doing it when Brent and Anne were here, maybe even letting them do it without her. She’d never planned on walking in there alone.
Her fingers curled around the doorknob as she forced deep breaths into her lungs. It was a room. Empty but for furniture, keepsakes, papers. The only thing in there that could hurt her were memories, and God knew she had enough of those. What were a few more?
She pushed the door and it silently swung inward. Mark had never been private about the office. Often she’d curled up in a chair to read while he worked at the mammoth desk one of his great-greats had had commissioned from one of Charleston’s premiere cabinetmakers. Clary had napped on a quilt on the floor while he’d caught Macy up on his day. She’d always been welcomed inside.
Tonight she didn’t feel welcome.
A flip of the switch lit the room brightly. Mark had teased his vision was receding, along with his hairline, so he’d liked good lighting. The room by its nature was dark: wood paneling and floors, marble fireplace surround, deep crimson paint on the walls, lots of gleaming mahogany pieces. It smelled of Mark and paper and disuse. If she listened hard enough, she was certain she could hear his voice, see his silhouette leaning back in the leather chair, feel the warmth of his presence.
She didn’t listen. Instead, she stared at the desk. Rather, at the packet of white papers centered neatly on it.
“Oh, God, oh, God, oh—” Clamping her hand over her mouth, she realized she was trembling, her fingers unsteady, her legs shaking. “I didn’t— God, I know I didn’t—”
Her gulp of air did little to ease the strangling sensation in her chest. It fluttered, rose, overwhelmed her and sent her on a hasty dash to the bathroom just down the hall, where she emptied her stomach.
She was washing her mouth when she caught her reflection in the mirror. Eyes too wide, forehead wrinkled, face drained of color. She couldn’t have looked more shocked if she had seen Mark sitting there in the chair.
“How could I go in there and forget?”
Her reflection didn’t answer, but there was only one answer: she was losing control again. No, not losing. Had lost control. Had lost the memory of opening that door, walking inside, laying the contract—arranging it—on the desk.