Chapter 17
I was fairly certain I was in an area of the house used exclusively by the domestic staff.
The walls and carpet were clean, but utilitarian, showing no signs of style or flair.
I’d come out into a hallway with a staircase to my left and two doors to my right, and I decided to make my way up the stairs, working hard to transfer my weight slowly, testing each floorboard to make sure it didn’t creak.
The stairs brought me out to the main entrance hallway of the house with its checkerboard tiled floors, and, on a seating area next to the door, a sleek black cat was curled up asleep. As I moved through the hall it lifted its head, opened one eye to peer at me, then went back to sleep.
I’d never pegged Wilson as a cat guy, but its presence was a very, very good sign.
Some houses had internal movement sensors as an extra layer of security, especially at night, but a household with a cat wouldn’t bother with something like that. It meant I could move freely through the house without being caught. Hopefully.
The house was elegantly decorated and looked to me like a decent mix of new and old.
The original features of the house were still in place – elegantly carved bannisters and coving on the ceiling – but the walls were painted in modern colors and the décor matched.
That was another contradiction about Vance Wilson.
Marcus had once told me he’d grown up in Philly, dirt poor, until he’d figured out how to make money by lying and stealing, blackmail, extortion and money laundering.
Now he was very rich and wanted everyone to think that he came from old money, like Alice.
I had a feeling that was why he’d chosen this beautiful old house full of expensive antiques rather than a sleek bachelor-pad apartment overlooking Central Park. It offered an air of legitimacy that he desperately craved.
It was also huge, covering three floors plus an attic and basement, which meant the trinket box could be anywhere. In a perfect world, I’d be in and out of the house within thirty minutes. Any longer than that was too risky, especially with another person there. But I also knew I couldn’t rush.
I glanced into the living spaces on the ground floor and decided quickly that, if Wilson still had the box, it wouldn’t be out on display.
The rooms had art on the walls but there were no side tables or mantlepieces covered with dust catchers.
His style – cliché as it was – leaned toward the masculine, with leather couches and furniture devoid of fussy cushions or blankets.
If I couldn’t find the trinket box tonight, I knew I was going to have to come back and thoroughly search the house, and to do that effectively I’d need to get Wilson and his mother to leave the city.
The plans for that were still forming in the back of my mind, though I thought a gas leak could be a good excuse.
I didn’t know how I could fake a gas leak just yet, but that was a problem for future Kendra.
There was also the possibility that Wilson had a storage facility either inside or out of the city and that the box could be there, but taking all of those possibilities into consideration was sending me spiraling, and I had to focus on one thing at a time.
I’d successfully gotten into the house. My first job was to clear this location – then I’d move onto plan B if needed.
The last place I’d seen the trinket box was in Wilson’s office, and it was the one room I’d actually spent time in, so it made the most sense to start there.
I slipped silently through the dark house, past the living rooms and formal dining room, to the office that overlooked the beautifully landscaped backyard.
In the stillness of the house, I could hear my own breathing, my own heartbeat rushing in my ears.
The door to the office was closed, and for a second I hesitated, wondering if Wilson would keep it locked, or booby-trapped. There was only one way to find out.
I reached out with my gloved hand, carefully wrapping it round the door handle, and pressed down.
Locked.
Damn it.
But this was why I’d brought tools with me.
I knelt down in front of the door and fumbled in my bag for a pen light to inspect the lock.
The good news was that I wouldn’t need to break it to get in – it was a standard internal door lock, which could be carefully levered open.
If I did a good enough job, then it would be impossible to know anyone had even fiddled with it …
apart from the fact that I wouldn’t be able to re-lock it on my way out.
It took a little time to pick the lock, eating into my self-imposed thirty-minute deadline. I worked slowly, methodically, the quietness of the house helping. After a few minutes of fiddling around I felt the mechanism give way, and I straightened up.
The door opened softly, smoothly, with only the faintest sound of movement against the plush carpet.
Inside, the office was mostly how I remembered: the walls were pale gray, glowing in the moonlight spilling in through the big windows, and there was a desk in the center of the room, clear of any clutter, with a chair behind it and two seats facing it.
I started by doing a sweep of the shelves, stuck between wanting to take my time to be sure the box wasn’t here and wanting to move quickly and efficiently. Fortunately, the shelves contained mostly books, and little décor.
Instead of a filing cabinet or cupboard, Wilson had an antique wardrobe in this room.
One side contained a suit jacket and a wool coat.
The other side was full of envelopes, stuffed half-assed onto the shelves.
I pulled a few out to riffle through them, finding bills, mostly, and paperwork for the various arms of Wilson’s businesses.
This was taking too long – I was getting frustrated. I forced myself to stop, put the paperwork back and take a slow, careful look round the room.
My gut told me the box wasn’t here. Wilson had moved it on – gifted it, sold it or put it into storage somewhere.
The only other thing I had to go on was his comment that his mother liked ‘junk like this’ and, since she was staying here right now, it was possible that she had it with her in the room she was in.
I made sure to close the door behind me as I left the office, and crossed my fingers that Wilson would blame himself for forgetting to lock it rather than being suspicious that someone had gotten in.
His ego was big enough that he would never suspect anyone of daring to try to break into his house … let alone me.
I stumbled at the top of the stairs and almost fell into a tiny table holding an elegant vase of flowers, but caught myself at the last second.
I jarred my knee in the process and bit my tongue instead of letting out the string of expletives I desperately wanted to.
I took a precious second to take a deep breath and test my knee, slowly transferring my weight onto it.
I’d survive.
The first bedroom I tried was empty, barely containing any furniture.
The blue walls and simple dark-wood bedframe would make for a nice enough guest room, though I was sure Wilson wasn’t the type to have guests stay very often.
I carefully closed the door again, nestling it silently back into its frame.
The next room was the last on this corridor, and if the plans I’d studied were correct, it contained a bedroom with ensuite bathroom and a walk-in closet. If this wasn’t Wilson’s room, I’d bet it was where his mother was staying.
I held my breath as I pushed open the door.
Even in the intense darkness I could tell someone else was in the room, and I had no intention of getting close to the bed.
I paused for a moment to let my eyes adjust to the darkness.
The room itself was enormous – the door opened into what could almost be classified as a sitting area, with the bed itself over on my right, beyond a couple of fussy armchairs.
This was definitely his mother’s room. There was no way Wilson would decorate his own bedroom like this and, besides, his mother was the only other person in the house at the moment.
The bed was set way back at the other end of the room, and I could only just make out the shadowy shape of someone sleeping in it.
My fingers twitched and my breathing grew ragged as I imagined the ultimate retribution …
Wilson had killed my mom, and now I had the opportunity to kill his.
It wouldn’t even be difficult. I had a gun, and she was asleep.
I could kill her and be gone again in minutes.
I swallowed hard and forced myself to turn my back on her.
Justice for my mom wasn’t turning myself into a murderer. I would dismantle everything Wilson prized and watch him get locked away for the rest of his life. Knowing he’d rot in jail would be enough.
If the floorplans I’d studied were accurate, the door on my left led to the closet.
I tiptoed over and opened it slowly, carefully, praying that Wilson’s mother was a deep sleeper and hoping the hinges didn’t creak.
As soon as the gap was wide enough for me to squeeze through, I moved inside, then closed the door behind me.
It wasn’t safe to turn on an overhead light, and I was prepared for that. I pulled out the tiny pen light from my bag, then swung it around to get an idea of the layout of the room. This closet was about the size of my bedroom back home.
Fucking rich criminals, man.
Two of the four walls were lined with clothes rails, the third had a dressing table set-up, and the last was busy with display cabinets.
In the middle of the room was a tall chest of drawers, and right at the back, in clear view of the door, was a safe.
I planned to exhaust my other options before trying to break into it.