The Outlaw Prince's Captive - Holly Rayner Page 0,18
white bedspread that looked so lush and appealing that Francesca wished for a moment that she could just sink into it. But there was no sign of Lindström.
On the adjacent wall, opposite the stairs, the final door awaited. He must be in here, Francesca thought, and pulled it open, no longer troubling to be quiet.
She gasped.
She was looking at the most splendid library she had ever seen.
The room was long, longer than it was wide, and the far wall was entirely made up of a big pane of glass, looking out over the forest. The two side walls were floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, and unlike the downstairs office, several of the books in this room were in English.
Francesca felt an urge to explore. She had a weakness for libraries, and this one was beautiful.
But it had not escaped her notice that she had now checked every room of the house, and Lindström was nowhere to be seen. It was obvious now that despite the TV being on, despite the takeout containers and the food she had observed downstairs, he was not at home.
She went to the top of the stairs again.
“Hello?” she called out, feeling a bit foolish and more than a little embarrassed. “Is anyone home?”
There was no answer. Of course not.
Francesca descended the stairs. She returned to the kitchen where she’d left the house-cleaning supplies and pulled out a stool, taking a seat at the counter.
This would be the best place to wait, she decided. It wouldn’t feel too much like she was invading Lindström’s space, the way waiting upstairs would. But the kitchen also couldn’t be seen through the windows at the front of the house. When he came home, she would have the element of surprise on her side.
She pulled her phone out of her pocket and dialed Laird.
He answered on the first ring. “Tell me you’re on your way back to the hotel.”
“Not yet,” Francesca admitted.
“Frannie. What are you doing?”
“He isn’t home,” Francesca said. “The place is empty. But I can tell he’s been here recently.” Quickly, she ran down the list of evidence she had found.
“Okay, so he’s living there, but he’s not there right now,” Laird said. “That’s what you went in to find out, right? Now we’ve got our next steps. You and I will head back over tomorrow.”
“I’m going to stay here a little longer,” Francesca said. “See if he comes back.”
“What are you talking about?” Laird fumed. “That wasn’t the agreement.”
“Matt, come on,” she said. “I’m in his house. I have a hunch about this. I think he’s going to be back here any minute, and when he is, I can bring him in.”
There was silence on the other end of the line.
“Say something,” she urged.
“You are so thirsty to prove yourself,” he said, “that you’re going to end up getting yourself into serious trouble. You don’t have the authority to even be in his house. And do you realize what a big chance you’re taking? Being in his house alone like that? The man is a killer.”
“He’s not exactly a first-degree murderer,” she pointed out. “He was involved in a hit-and-run.”
“And that’s, what, nothing?”
“Of course it isn’t nothing,” she snapped. “I’m here trying to bring him to justice, aren’t I? I’m just saying that he doesn’t strike me as the kind of man who would kill someone deliberately and in cold blood.”
“You don’t know what kind of man he is,” Laird said. “All you know is that he’s on the run. All you know is that he was more concerned with going free than he was with the person he hit with his car.”
“I have a feeling about this, Matt.”
“You can’t just work by instinct all the time,” Laird said.
“I realize that,” Francesca said. “But this time I can.”
Laird sighed and said nothing.
“I’ll stay in touch,” Francesca promised.
“One hour,” Laird said. “If you’re not on your way back by then, I’m coming to get you.”
Chapter 7
Forty-five minutes went by, and still Lindström had not returned home.
Little though she cared to admit it, Francesca was beginning to doubt her own judgment. Maybe Laird was right. Maybe she had been foolish to wait here in the house.
He’s never going to let me forget it, she thought unhappily. I’m going to have to go back to the hotel and admit I was wrong, and then for the rest of this investigation, he won’t trust my instincts.
It was maddening. So she had been wrong one time. Was that any reason to write her off? If