isn’t—it’s deeper, like the shirt he took from me yesterday. Of course, it’s no Target dress. It’s sweet and soft, with sleeves that go down to my wrists. It’s long enough to skim above my knees. I twirl in it in front of the mirror and push it back into place as soon as I can. Embarrassing. Embarrassing, to feel nice like this, in a place like this, with a man like this. He’s dressed me up like an innocent little doll.
There are shoes to go with the dress. Soft ones, for inside the house. With all of it on I look, shockingly, like a Constantine. Like someone who’s never wanted for money or worried about student loans or driven home with snow pouring in through her car’s vents.
It’s afternoon by the time I get up the courage to leave.
No one has knocked on the door all day. They’ve left me to dry my hair and lie on the bed and stare at the ceiling. The appeal didn’t last very long, so I creep out into the silent hallway.
No sign of Leo, or Mrs. Page, or Gerard. No sign of anyone. Maybe I was wrong about there being more staff than I thought. I pad down the hall and down the stairs to the first floor.
Right or left?
I go toward the dining room we ate in yesterday. This wing of the ground floor seems to be the less public one, though I’d have to go snooping in order to confirm it. All I really know is that there’s a dining room this way.
The door to the dining room is open. It’s empty.
So are the other rooms. A formal sitting room. What looks like a miniature art gallery. I turn the corner. I’m underneath the bedroom wing now. Unlike upstairs, where the hall is all windows on one side and doors on the other, this space is all doors.
Someone is humming.
I follow the sound past two more closed doors to an open one.
Inside the threshold is a den. Brighter than the main hallways, with all that charcoal and gold. The space is all warm wood and leather furniture. It’s huge, for a den, or maybe I’m only comparing it to the den in my house, which is basically a cramped closet next to my dad’s workshop. The courtyard windows make everything gleam with winter light.
Especially the woman on the sofa, who is lying with her back in the center and her legs flung over the arm. Dark curls spill onto the leather, and her hands—one holding a sketchbook, the other holding a pencil—sparkle with rings. The size and shape of the jewels say diamonds.
I take the first step through the door and she twists on the sofa, pushing herself up to look at me. It’s sexy. I don’t know how a person could make their hair fall that way in a scramble on the sofa, but she does it. “Oh, good.” A wide smile lights up her face. I know that face. It’s a Morelli face. She looks just like Leo. “You’re awake.”
“Hi.” I run my fingers through my hair, then put my hands back at my sides. “I’m Haley.”
“I know.” She gets up off the couch and comes to me, barefooted and graceful and...bubbly. Her sketchbook is abandoned, but she doesn’t seem to mind. She throws her arms around me. I stand there, rigid, like I’ve never been hugged before. What’s hugging protocol among the Morellis? God. Of all the things to think about.
“Um...” I sound like a shrinking violet. She squeezes, then lets go. “I don’t know who you are. I’m sorry. I’m new here.”
“Daphne Morelli, pleased to meet you.” Daphne’s laugh matches her smile—it’s personable and pretty. I’m through the looking glass. In some universe where it’s possible for a Morelli to be nice to me. My heart shrinks back. She’s probably faking it. Probably skilled at making people believe she’s kind. But she doesn’t seem duplicitous. “Come sit, come sit. I don’t have to be anywhere for a while.”
I follow her back to the couch. “Weekend plans?”
“I’m meeting a gallery owner about some pieces.” Daphne takes a seat on one end of the sofa, then pats the spot next to her. She waits until I’m seated, then pulls a throw blanket off the back of the sofa and tosses it over my lap. “There. Now, tell me why you’re here. Leo wouldn’t.”
What did he tell her? Not my last name. If she knew that, she wouldn’t be