and west. Straight ahead, out the giant windows to the south, is the grove. He makes a hard turn toward the east wing, as if he’s climbed the stairs and headed that way a thousand times before, but at the last second, he pivots suddenly on his heel and turns left. “You’ll love the view from the master.”
“What’s that way?” I ask, ghosting my hand over the wrought iron banister.
The east wing is cloaked in shadow. Every door is shut.
Michael doesn’t slow his pace and doesn’t turn around as he answers, “The east wing houses a billiards room, gym, screening room, two bathrooms. If you want to get into any of those rooms, you’ll have to let me know.”
“Why’s that?”
“I keep them locked.”
“All the time?”
At that, he turns, his mouth in a hard line. “You know how much work takes out of me, Colleen. I don’t have as much time for recreation as I used to. It didn’t make sense to have Samara clean the rooms in both wings, if I was only going to be using one side.”
“Samara?”
“My housekeeper.”
“I can’t wait to meet her,” I say, glancing back at the doors once more. Was Samara the one watching from the window when we first pulled up? No, couldn’t be. It’s Sunday. Surely Michael wouldn’t have staff here on the weekends. But if not her, then who? “It’s only the three larger rooms on that side, then?”
What had he said? Billiards, screening room, and gym.
“There’s an office, and two bathrooms as well. Oh, and a smaller bedroom and second master.” His pace slows, only a beat, as he glances at me out of the corner of his eye. “But you shouldn’t have any reason to go in there.”
What an odd thing to say.
“Is it for guests?”
“No.”
“Extra storage?”
“I guess you could say that.” He pauses. “This way.”
But I wonder what he’d been about to say, and what he keeps in those two other rooms in the east wing. They’re not for guests or storage, that much is certain. I can always tell when he’s lying—his voice lifts. It’s slight, but I’ve come to know it well. He lies at work. Not about serious things, of course, but tiny white lies about how long a certain meeting lasted or when he’ll be able to finish paperwork.
I don’t like the fact that he’s lying to me now. Especially about something as ridiculous as what he keeps behind those doors. What could he possibly have to hide?
We pass half a dozen bedrooms decorated in dark, masculine tones, and just as many bathrooms, before reaching the master. These doors are left open, I realize, because these are the rooms I’m allowed to go in freely.
When I reach the entry to the master, I swallow a gasp. Minimally decorated, it has a king-size bed with a nightstand on either side. White lampshades. White duvet, fluffy and inviting, piled with a dozen white pillows. Over the lower quarter of the bed, a sapphire blanket has been perfectly folded, adding a tiny splash of color to the immaculately decorated space.
Is this the bed where they slept together? Did she sleep with her head on that pillow, right next to his, tangled in those white sheets? My stomach sours at the image.
As my attention shifts from the bed to the windows, I approach Michael and follow his line of sight. Beyond the glass is an unobstructed view of the sea. Waves tumble and crest before crashing onto the sand. The weather’s churning kelp in the surf and tossing it around. Wind gusts over mounds of sand and dense shrubbery, bending the gnarly branches of the cypresses in the distance. It’ll rain tonight, I’m sure of it.
I must’ve made a shocked sound, because Michael says, “I know, right? It’s a twenty-million-dollar view.”