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“Now that I’m confident you’re in the clear,” Beau agreed. “Do we have a deal?”

Archie was silent. In that silence he could feel his heart pounding too hard, hear the thump of blood banging against his temples, see the tiny tremors rippling through his muscles as he gripped his knees.

He didn’t want to give an inch, but he wasn’t stupid. He knew Beau was right. Even if someone hadn’t decided he was a threat, he was getting dangerously close to collapse. It wouldn’t kill him to lie low for a day.

Did he really have a choice?

Anyway, he very much wanted to get his hands on that file.

He said curtly, “Yeah. Deal.”

“Good.” Beau studied him for a moment. His mouth twitched into an almost-smile. He rose. “Sleep tight. I’m spending the night in your former room.”

“They’ll wait for the maid to find the knife,” Archie said.

“Probably. But maybe they’re the impatient kind. We’ve got a few of those running around. Anyway, I’ll check in tomorrow.” Beau opened the door, slipped silently into the hall, and closed the door behind him.

Chapter Twelve

Archie didn’t expect to sleep.

His brain roiled with questions, confusion.

Why come after him? How was he a threat to anyone? Anyone who was paying attention, that is. Was the fact that he was an FBI agent throwing someone into a panic?

What happened to his case now that Breland was dead? Was the question moot, given that he might not have a career, never mind a particular case, by the time he escaped Twinkleton?

Why had John made him the main beneficiary of his will? What had John been trying to tell him in the gazebo that night? But even more to the point, why in God’s name would anyone murder John?

What had he seen in John’s garden the night of the ghost walk?

Why try to frame him? Why not just kill him?

Why had Beau changed his mind about giving him access to John’s file? What had Beau planned to tell him before the discovery of the knife?

Would he have wanted to hear it?

How long before he was back to normal?

Was he going to make it back?

None of these thoughts were conducive to sleep.

He needed to be up and dealing with things, all of these things, but instead, here he was, losing valuable time flat on his back in a dark room, trying to convince himself the bed wasn’t actually spinning...

Astonishingly, in the midst of these tumultuous reflections, he passed out.

When he woke, it was one-thirty in the morning. The room felt warm and stuffy. The lamp next to his bed was shining; he was still fully clothed. He managed to sit up long enough to strip and turn off the lamp, before he tumbled back onto the mattress and into sleep.

The next time Archie opened his eyes, he was convinced it was Monday morning and he had dreamed the events of the previous day.

It was hard to hang onto that comforting illusion after he realized he was in a different room and, according to the old-fashioned clock on the table by the window, it was two o’clock.

Clearly not two a.m., which meant...

“Shit.” He threw back the bedclothes and got up—cautiously—stumbling into the bathroom to splash water on his face. The cold water helped, and coffee would help, assuming this coffee maker worked.

The sleep had helped. A lot. He could think again. His normal confidence began to reassert itself. Yes, there was a hell of a lot to deal with, but if Beau was serious about temporarily withholding discovery of the knife, if he really would give Archie access to John’s case file…