table, suddenly noticing the absence of noise. There is usually a hum of a TV from the den or the newly installed flat screen in the kitchen, music playing somewhere, the shuffle of her feet as she dances to the beat. Though the lights burn bright in the hallway, the rooms I pass are dark and still. Salon, formal dining room, sitting room, music room, library, or den; I duck my head into each, just in case, as I make my way to the back of the house when I notice light coming from the kitchen. But there’s no sign of Rose.
My fist clamps around my heart as I take the treads of the second staircase two at a time. I’ve had a particularly trying day. One where I might have, possibly, once again faced my own mortality, if not for the vigilance of a member of staff. I had a meeting in Turin, Italy—just a forty-minute helicopter flight away—but when I arrived at the helipad, I found my usual pilot arguing with a new member of the maintenance crew. It seems the engineer noticed an irregularity with a lubricant that had been used for the rotors, and used for quite some time, as I understand. It wasn’t an irregularity but an error, an error that hadn’t been picked up at the one-hundred-hour maintenance check just last week. The engineer was trying to make the pilot understand the potential for an accident, while the pilot could only see that the previous week’s maintenance report as proof of all was well. An error, not a case of tampering. Probably. Though still a potentially costly one, and not just in terms of possible repair expenses. An unsuitable lubricant causes erosion, which would have, at some point, resulted in a mechanical failure. Possibly in midair.
Needless to say, I did not fly to Turin in my own helicopter but in a hire. An investigation is underway, but it appears to be a case of human error on the part of the old engineer. Words that are easily said. Words that have no effect on the chill currently creeping up my spine.
A low light shines from under our bedroom door as I push it open, my heart rising to my throat.
‘Rose?’
No answer, not as I push the door wide and—
‘Honey, you’re home.’ I hear her before I see her, the warmth in her voice thawing my internal chill.
‘There you are.’
She lifts her chin, an act of courage, not of enquiry, as the colour in her cheeks reflects the blush pink colour of the velvet chair she’s lounging on. Her toenails are painted a similar shade, her nail polish one of just three things she appears to be wearing.
Pink nail polish. A man’s tie. A white shirt that I believe is mine.
Home. I am home. I step farther into the room, pushing my hands in my pockets as I will my heart to still. She’s here. She’s okay. She’s my home, and no matter what, she always will be.
‘Have you been looking for me?’
Only my whole life, I almost answer because how do you look for something you didn’t realise you needed. But I do need her. I’ve needed her all along.
‘What have we got here?’ I make a path to the ottoman as she points her toes, my gaze crawling from there up the length of her toned legs. In one hand, she holds a crystal tumbler by the rim, something tawny contained, as her other draws soft circles against the silky pile of the chair arm.
‘I bought you a present. From Glenna,’ she adds, in response to my slight frown. ‘Only you wouldn’t know who Glenna Goodman is.’ Her eyes are beguiling, even as she raises her brows.
‘Ah, the dressmaker.’
‘Not even close,’ she says with a tiny laugh. ‘I’m not sure a dressmaker would make one of these.’ She toys with the thin end of the tie she’s wearing looped casually around her neck. The outer side lies down the length of her torso, pointing like an arrow to the heaven between her legs.
‘And what is that?’ My tone is pondering as I bring my hand to my chin. ‘Do you think someone needs direction? Is it perhaps a subtle hint?’
‘It’s a gift.’ She arches a little in the chair, the cotton of my shirt exposing the bud of her nipple. She is a gift, from the way her dark hair gleams in the candlelight and the way it licks at her skin. Her