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“All right. I’ll see you tomorrow morning.”

Archie opened his mouth, caught her gaze, and closed it.

“See you tomorrow,” he said meekly.

But really, eventually they were going to have to have some kind of conversation about Mrs. Simm’s continued employment. Unless she had accrued some serious debt, John had surely arranged matters so that she no longer needed to work? Either way, Archie didn’t need a housekeeper. Even if he couldn’t sell the house right away, he wasn’t going to stay in Twinkleton.

The back door screen banged shut behind Simmy, as Archie headed down the dark hall to John’s study.

The house suddenly felt very quiet, very empty.

He reached John’s study, pausing in the doorway to survey the room by moonlight.

Strangely, in the silvery gloom it was easier to believe that John was still here, that he had simply stepped into another room. There was something comforting about the familiar outline of bookshelves and furniture, the sheen of pale wood and glazed bricks, the faded print of upholstered roses, the gleam of painted eyes in the portrait above the fireplace.

Archie moved across to the desk, switched on the lamp, and sat down in John’s chair. He could almost imagine he caught the scent of John’s aftershave—the basil, cucumber, suede notes of Polo Blue blended, always, with an undernote of disinfectant and mouthwash.

He smiled faintly at the thought. He was not about to go all woo-woo, but it was hard to shake that sense of bittersweet nostalgia.

A large stack of mail addressed to John sat on the desk’s ink blotter.

A single envelope addressed to Archie was propped against the brass base of the green banker’s lamp. His initial excitement that this might be the letter John had left for him instantly faded. He recognized the black sprawling penmanship as that of his former partner, Bettina David.

He picked up the envelope and heard the slide of something small and light. The hair on his nape prickled.

Was this what he thought it was?

Had Betty been on-scene that day? She was about the only person who would have recognized that tiny circle of silver for what it was.

He opened the pencil drawer, looking for John’s letter opener.

The screen door banged from the kitchen, announcing Beau’s arrival.

“In here,” Archie called absently. He slit open the envelope, squeezed the sides, and peered at the contents. A folded note and a glint of silver.

Then he raised his head, listening to the squeak of a floorboard down the hallway.

Instantly, he realized his mistake.

Beau might let himself inside the house, but he’d sure as hell call out. He wouldn’t silently tiptoe down the hall to the study.

Archie snapped out the lamplight, moving swiftly, soundlessly from the desk toward the fireplace, avoiding the obstacle course of end table and lamp, chair, ottoman. His outstretched hand felt through the darkness until he could grab the handle of the poker, which chimed softly against its iron stand. He flattened himself against the wall, stayed absolutely motionless in the shadows, alert and ready—as ready as he could be with only a poker to defend himself.

Despite the thump-thump, thump-thump of blood pounding in his ears, he felt surprisingly steady. This was familiar terrain.

Another squeak. Closer now.

The house did not have a security system. There were security cameras in the front yard, but no cameras inside.

He waited, seconds ticking by, gaze trained on the doorway, and felt a little jolt as the light from the kitchen backlit the outline of a tall silhouette standing in the doorway.

Impossible to make out more than that: a tall shadow.

One shadow. So that was good.

Better, anyway.

Archie hesitated. He thought the intruder was looking for him at the desk—so, someone who knew the layout of John’s office? Or just a lucky guess?