In the Manor with the Millionaire. Cassie Miles

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      She stammered. “I-is there, um, some kind of schedule?”

      He lifted an eyebrow; his expression changed from arrogant to vaguely amused. He stretched out his arm and pointed to the wall beside her. “How’s this?”

      Right in front of her nose was a three-foot-by-two-foot poster board with a heading in letters five inches high: Duncan’s Schedule. The entire day was plotted in detail.

      “I’ve found,” he said, “that Duncan does best when we stick to a consistent routine.”

      She pointed to the slot after breakfast. “Quiet Time in Family Room. What does that mean?”

      “Exactly what it says. Duncan likes to spend time by himself, and all his toys are in the family room. Usually he plays computer games.”

      The next slot said Lessons. “How do I know where to start?”

      “Duncan’s last tutor left a log that detailed her teaching plans and Duncan’s progress. She wasn’t a live-in, and I can’t say that I was happy with her results.” He glanced toward the housekeeper. “Is that coffee hot?”

      “Piping.”

      He went to the coffeemaker and filled a mug. “Well, Alma, it’s nice to see that you’re finally cleaning up in here.”

      “I aim to please,” she said. “Breakfast in your studio?”

      “Eggs over easy, wheat toast and bacon.”

      With a nod to Madeline, he left the kitchen.

      Though his back was turned, she made a “bye-bye” motion with her hand. Oh, good grief. Could she possibly be more of a dork?

      Alma chuckled. “Got a little crush on his lordship?”

      “Of course not.”

      “He’s a handsome thing. And he’s even taller than you are. Probably six foot two or three.”

      “I hadn’t noticed.”

      She returned to the sink and dug into the stack of dirty dishes with renewed vigor. After she’d cleaned up the kitchen and grabbed an energy bar for breakfast, she trailed Duncan into the family room. He spoke not a word, went directly to his computer and turned it on.

      Like the kitchen, this room was a mess. Sunlight gushed through a wall of windows, illuminating a cluttered worktable where Duncan sat at his computer. Though the wall had a neat row of storage bins and shelves, everything had been heaped on the floor—played with and then discarded.

      The chaos didn’t make sense. Every hour of Duncan’s day was regimented, but here—in the place where he was supposed to learn—he was surrounded by disarray.

      Obviously, she needed to put things in order. One of the earliest lessons taught in grade school was “Putting Things Away.” Getting Duncan to participate in the clean-up would have been good, but she didn’t want to disrupt his schedule. This hour was for quiet time.

      While he fiddled with his computer, she picked up a plush blue pony and placed it on the shelf labeled Stuffed Animals. Then another stuffed toy. Blocks in the bin. Crayons back in their box. Trucks and cars on another labeled shelf.

      Eventually, she found a place for everything. “All done,” she said. “I’m going out to my car to bring a few things inside.”

      He didn’t even glance in her direction. No communication whatsoever. A cone of isolation surrounded him. No one was allowed to touch.

      After running up to her bedroom to grab her car keys, she stepped outside into the sunny warmth of a July day. Her beat-up Volkswagen station wagon with the brand- new dent from her collision with Dr. Fisher was parked just outside the front door. When she unlocked the back, she noticed that the flaps on a couple of boxes were open. She hadn’t put them in here like that. Everything had been sealed with tape or had the flaps tucked in. Had someone been tampering with her things? When Blake got her suitcase, did he also search her belongings?

      Before she built up a full-blown anger at him about his callous intrusion into her privacy, a more ominous thought occurred. What if it was someone else?

      Last night, she’d sensed that someone was in her bedroom. She hadn’t actually seen anyone; it was just a fleeting impression. But what if it were true? Dr. Fisher had said that he’d “always know where to find her.” He owned this house. Surely he had a key. But why would he look through her things?

      “Need some help?” Alma called from the doorway.

      Madeline slammed the rear door. “I’ll worry about this stuff later. But I need to get the ficus out of the front seat before it wilts.”

      She unlocked the passenger-side door and liberated the plant. The ficus itself wasn’t anything special, but the fluted porcelain pot painted with rosebuds was one of her favorite things.

      “Heavy,” she muttered as she kicked the car door closed and lurched toward the house, not stopping until she reached her second-floor bedroom where she set the plant near the window. The delicately painted pot looked as though it belonged here—more than she did.

      Had someone crept into her room last night? There was no way to prove she’d had an intruder unless she contacted the police and had them take fingerprints. Even then, Dr. Fisher had a right to be in the house; he owned the place. If not Fisher, who? The serial killer. His last victim, Sofia, had looked like her.

      Madeline plucked off her glasses and wiped the lenses. She didn’t want to raise an alarm about a prowler unless she had tangible evidence. Tonight, before she went to bed, she’d push the ficus against the door so no one could enter without making a lot of noise.

      She hurried down the staircase toward the family room. In the doorway, she came to an abrupt halt. The room she had so carefully cleaned was ransacked. Stuffed animals had been flung in every direction. Books spilled across the floor. The toy trucks and cars looked like a major highway collision. Little Duncan stood in the midst of it, oblivious to her presence.

      Either she could laugh or cry. She chose the former, letting out her frustration in a chuckle. Now she knew why the room had been a mess.

      Duncan paced toward her. When he held out his hand, she saw that he was wearing latex gloves. In the center of his palm was the white seashell he’d shown her last night.

      “Temperance,” she said.

      He marched past her into the corridor that led to the front door. His clear intention was to go outside. And how could she stop him? From the information she had on autistic kids, she knew that corporal punishment often led to tantrums. Arguments were futile.

      The key, she decided, was to gain his trust. Maybe she could impart a few bits of knowledge along the way.

      At the front door, she stepped ahead of him, blocking his way and creating the illusion that she was in control. “We’re going to take a walk. Across the yard to the forest. And we’ll gather pinecones. Six pinecones.”

      “Ten,” he said.

      “Ten is good.”

      Outside, СКАЧАТЬ