Page 44 of Canvas of Lies (Spruce Hill #3)

Chapter Thirty-Five

Nico

W e stayed there at the window for a long time, lost in our thoughts, until I said quietly, “It feels like a hundred years have passed since I was last here.”

Memories of that final visit ricocheted through me.

It was probably foolish to carry so much anger for a dead man, but hopefully the passage of time would help to dispel that.

When her arms folded over mine, I smiled against Kat’s ear.

No matter how unsettled our lives became at any given moment, holding her was like finding an anchor.

Each crappy memory of life at the estate was softened by all of the good times we had together, brought bubbling to the surface by the feel of her warm, soft form leaning against my chest.

“I know it’s early,” Kat said, glancing over her shoulder, “but I’m exhausted. ”

I pressed my lips to her temple. “Let’s get ready for bed. It’s been a long couple of days.”

We located the bare minimum of necessities from our bags and prepared for sleep.

Whether it was simply being in a strange place for the night or the more specific sensation of being back at The Castle, where every move toward the Willoughby princess was watched and weighed, I kept my boxers and tee on as I stretched out on the bed.

When Kat returned from brushing her teeth clad in an oversized nightshirt, I had to smile.

“What?” she asked, sliding under the covers to cuddle up against my side.

“We usually don’t wear so much to bed,” I teased, “but here it feels . . . I don’t know.”

“Like the ghost of my father is still watching you like a hawk?”

I laughed and buried my face in her hair. “Yes, and like I definitely don’t want to get caught wandering the halls naked.”

Exhausted as we were, we whispered together late into the night as though we were children at an illicit sleepover rather than the new—if temporary—inhabitants of the house.

When Kat eventually drifted off, sprawled across my chest, I continued combing my fingers through her hair for a long time afterward.

The feel of those silken curls over my skin was meditative, casting me nearly into a trance.

I lost all sense of time, all train of thought, as I listened to the soft, even sounds of her breathing .

Had I stopped stroking her hair sooner, I might have fallen asleep several moments earlier and missed the sound of glass breaking from somewhere downstairs.

My hand paused mid-stroke as every one of my senses fired back into action.

Beardsley’s room was on the first floor, but I was pretty sure it was at the other end of the house.

The old butler’s hearing wasn’t what it used to be, so I hoped Beardsley was safe enough in his bed.

I hesitated for a moment, debating whether I should go check it out without alerting Kat, then gently shook her shoulder. If she woke up to find me gone, she’d throw herself in the path of danger without blinking.

“Kitten, I think there might be someone downstairs. I want you to lock the door behind me and call the police,” I said in a low voice.

Kat rubbed her eyes with one hand and reached for her phone with the other. I was already pulling on jeans when I saw the words filter into her sleepy brain. She bolted upright.

“Jesus, Nico, you’re not going down there alone,” she whispered.

I kissed her, hard and swift. “For once in your life, promise you’ll stay right here, got it? Lock the door behind me.”

Once she nodded in agreement, I slipped from the room and waited for the sound of the lock to click before heading toward the stairs. Though I didn’t hear anything else from downstairs, I stopped at the den and grabbed the baseball bat from the wall .

Willoughby would be rolling over in his grave, I thought, then grimaced when I realized the man hadn’t been buried yet.

My bare feet were silent against the gleaming wood stairs as I made my way into the pitch black front hall.

At the bottom, I paused, listening. A faint rustle met my ears and I turned to follow the sound down the hallway that led toward Willoughby’s office and the library.

I was struck by the memory of creeping along this same route with Kat the night of that fateful party, both of us determined to win hide and seek by hiding somewhere no one would dare to look.

We’d won, all right, but Kat had lost too much that night for us to gloat.

I pushed aside the familiar ache that accompanied those memories of the night her life changed forever as I continued down the corridor.

The house boasted a state of the art alarm system, but we’d sent Beardsley to bed early and hadn’t bothered to work through the old man’s illegibly scrawled directions in order to set it ourselves.

I was silently cursing that decision when I heard the distinct sound of muttering from the library.

With the bat angled over my shoulder, I edged closer to the doorway. Part of me understood and accepted that confronting a thief was a terrible idea—what the hell did I care if someone stole from Aidan Willoughby’s vast hoard of wealth?

The other part of me had a gut feeling it wasn’t just a cat burglar searching the house for items to pawn.

Above all, I prayed Kat would actually stay put and that the police were on their way, because the baseball bat would be useless if the intruder had a weapon. After a brief internal debate, I pulled my phone from my pocket and set it to record.

I forced a deep breath into my lungs as I pocketed the phone again and stepped into the doorway.

Light from the old-fashioned street lamps at the front of the house spilled through the window, casting an elongated rectangle of illumination on the floor.

It was so dim that I had to squint until the intruder took an angry step toward the fireplace.

The glow was just enough for me to recognize the man’s face.

“Need help finding something, Mr. Chesterfield?” I asked, my voice mild despite a rush of adrenaline at my suspicions being confirmed.

The lawyer whirled around, sneering at me from across the room even as he drew a gun from his waistband. “Where’s the painting?” he growled.

I lowered the bat to lean against it like a cane, hoping the move made me look like less of a threat. “I put it in the office after everyone left. Would you like me to go fetch it for you?”

Chesterfield was a relatively fit fifty-something with the kind of physique that had been honed at a health club, but the gun gave him a distinct advantage.

The way he waved it made me nervous as hell, like the man had no idea how to safely handle a firearm.

Even if he didn’t mean to shoot, he could easily injure or kill me.

“Lead the way,” Chesterfield hissed. “But first, why don’t you drop that bat? You try anything stupid, I’ll put a bullet in your brain. Either way, I still end up with that fucking painting.”

Letting the bat fall to the floor, I turned and walked toward the office, praying he wouldn’t shoot me in the back out of spite.

Chesterfield sounded even more unhinged than he had earlier in the day, muttering under his breath as he followed a few paces behind me.

I moved with exaggerated caution, taking slow, heavy steps down the hallway.

My bare feet didn’t make much noise, but I hoped the sound of Chesterfield’s footsteps would alert Kat if she happened to follow me downstairs.

Christ, I hoped she was still safe up in the bedroom.

“How do you see this playing out, Chesterfield?” I asked, striving for a friendly tone despite the ball of dread in my stomach. I led the way into the office and flipped on the light.

Chesterfield squinted at the sudden brightness but didn’t complain. I breathed a silent sigh of relief—if the police showed up, it’d be easier for them to find the right room this way, without having to search the entire mansion.

“Where is it?” Chesterfield demanded. “Don’t screw with me, boy, or I’ll have to ask my stepdaughter, won’t I?”

Icy tendrils squeezed my heart. “Relax. You can take the painting. We’re not going to stand in your way.” I lifted a hand toward the fireplace where the wooden crate was propped against the stone surround.

The older man snatched it, an expression of pure glee crossing his features before his eyes narrowed on my face. Shoving the crate at my chest, Chesterfield ordered, “Show it to me. ”

I did as I was told, grateful for any delay that might give the police time to show up before he decided I was no longer of use. When I set the framed canvas on the big oak desk, a slow smile spread across Chesterfield’s face. I dropped my gaze to the painting and let the familiar image calm me.

I needed all the help I could get.

We stood close together now, separated by only an arm’s length.

My muscles tensed as I considered my next move.

The gun was no longer pointed at my chest, so this was likely the best chance I’d get at wrestling it out of Chesterfield’s hands, if I decided to go that route.

Silently, I wondered if there was any possibility the man might simply take the painting and walk away—murder was a serious step up from burglary, after all.

Before I could consider my next course of action, the truth hit me like a ton of bricks.

“It was you,” I breathed. “You’re the one who sent that car to run us off the road. You had Willoughby killed.”

Chesterfield barely looked at me, focused as he was on the painting. “They’ll never tie me to any of it. It was all my darling Julia’s idea, after all.”

“All of that for a painting?” My mind scrabbled for a foothold, some way to keep Chesterfield talking until the police arrived.