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  Augusta’s eyes were round. “There’s more you want to do?”

  Joe looked up from his notebook, brows raised. “This is just the tip of the iceberg. I recommend you have pressure plate sensors installed outside the windows and the French doors on the ground floor. Frankly, I think you should replace those French doors with something big and solid, but I don’t think I’d win that one.”

  “We’ll see how it goes,” Augusta said wryly. “You didn’t mention anything about the basement.”

  “I think we can leave it alone for now. There are no external entry points there.”

  “All right.”

  “Do you want the alarm to be silent or do you want it loud enough to wake up your neighbors down the street?”

  “I want it loud enough to wake up the neighbors down the street. I want to scare off intruders. I have no intention of trying to take them out myself.”

  “I heard you did a pretty good job of rescuing yourself last night.”

  She shuddered and swallowed past the sudden dryness in her throat. “That was sheer luck. I’m essentially a coward at heart. I have no desire to go through that again.”

  “People who think they’re brave are usually all hot air. They like to fantasize about how they’d be cool, calm and collected and easily come out on top in situations like yours, with maybe a battle scar as a memento. But in reality they would’ve panicked and lost their heads.”

  Joe’s eyes went past Augusta and into the hall. “I saw stairs leading up to another floor.”

  “My attic.” Her voice turned grim. “With a skylight and lots of floor-to-ceiling windows. You’d better check it out.”

  They made their way up the stairs. Augusta waited just inside the room while Joe checked out the door.

  “I’ll replace this door with a solid core one and get a sturdy lock for it.”

  “To keep them in or to keep them out?”

  Joe glanced at all the glass in the expansive open space and gave a long, low whistle. The entire floor was two rooms—a good-sized bathroom in the far right corner and the remaining space made up an artist’s fairytale studio that was bigger than most Manhattan apartments. The studio was complete with an industrial-sized double sink, built-in cabinetry along one wall, a microwave and a mini-fridge. Natural light poured down from a large skylight in the roof. The front and back walls were floor-to-ceiling windows, with the heavy, cream-colored weave curtains pulled back.

  He gave another low whistle. “This is some room.”

  Augusta did a quick sweep, feeling a small measure of pride. “The renovation took three months of arguing with the architect and contractor and living in a studio apartment, but I think the end is definitely worth it,” she told him, stepping out of her heels and setting her feet on the smooth surface. The floors were an impractical mahogany because she couldn’t stand the thought of being barefoot on a concrete floor.

  “Back to the door,” she said.

  “To keep them in. This attic is nicer than my apartment, but it’s a security nightmare.”

  “I need all the natural light I can get in this room.”

  Joe noted the canvases scattered throughout the room. Most were covered, but the few that weren’t made an uneasy look cross his face. He tried to cover it with a polite smile, but Augusta was used to his reaction to her work. He’d probably been expecting some pretty watercolors of cute animals and seascapes, not images so dark and ominous and seething with such suppressed violence that it could’ve been a frame out of a Punisher comic book.

  “They’re nice paintings.”

  “It’s okay to be honest with me. My ego’s taken enough beatings to develop a pretty thick armor.”

  He grinned at her and shrugged. “I don’t know much about art.”

  “You don’t need to know about art to enjoy it. I feel sorry for the people who buy stuff they’ve been told they have to admire by critics. Usually they’ve just spent a fortune to hang something in their home they probably hate. That’s a waste of money—unless it’s an investment that’s guaranteed to pay off.”

  Joe chuckled. “I never thought of it that way.” With a flick of his wrist he flipped his notebook closed and tucked it and his pen in the inside pocket of his worn bomber jacket. “I’m done for now. I’ve got to get back to my shop and get the equipment together. I’ll be back in about an hour with my team and we’ll get this set up for you. And we’ll bring new locks for the front door.”

  After seeing Joe out, Augusta very carefully engaged each lock on her door. That task complete, she stood there, thinking. For the first time in a long time, she had free time on her hands. And her fingers curled loosely, itching for the natural feel of a paintbrush.

  * * * * *

  Sandra Munter pulled at the scrunchie that secured her pale brown hair in a ponytail high on her head. She curled her toes in her well-worn running shoes and wished her medical plan covered orthotics. Nine hours straight of waiting tables in a diner was hell compared to sitting behind a desk and reading magazines, no matter what the shift. Charlie had no idea what he was talking about when he bitched about his job. Sure, he had to deal with rich people who didn’t understand the concept of budgets and student loans and mortgage payments, but at least he got to sit on his ass while he did it.

  Sandra threw her scrunchie inside her plaid hobo bag, then fished around for her keys. Her bag was fuller than usual, since she’d stuffed a change of clothes in there. Her devout Roman Catholic mom adamantly refused to allow her twenty-year-old daughter to move in with her boyfriend, so Sandra came up with flimsy excuses to explain her frequent overnight absences, but either her mom was really gullible or in denial.

  Sandra shook her bag, heard the muffled jingle of keys and was relieved she hadn’t lost them. She pushed her hand down deeper into the bag until her fingers touched jagged metal. After pulling out her ring of keys, she flicked through them until she came to the right one. She inserted the key into the deadbolt and didn’t think anything of it when she found it unlocked. Charlie had been stressed to the max since one of the residents in his building had been thrown from his terrace.

  Sandra unlocked the deadbolt and opened the door. The stench hit her, pungent, nearly making her gag. Was the toilet backed up? She shook her head, annoyance warming her. The superintendent in this building was useless.

  She assumed Charlie was sleeping since the apartment was completely dark. She flipped on the light switch and hurried across the room to open a window. Even though Charlie’s possessions were few, his place was always in disarray. Soda cans, potato chip bags, dirty plates and utensils and magazines, but no Charlie. She went to the bedroom, pushed open the door and screamed.

  Chapter Ten

  Jana stretched her neck to one side, then to the other. She shut down her laptop and pushed away from her desk, wishing her carpet wasn’t so plush that the wheels of her chair resisted moving. To her mental to-do list, she added buy a plastic chair mat. She let her hands drop into her lap and fisted them, her brow wrinkling. The throbbing at the base of her skull was going to be a full-blown headache by the time she reached her apartment. She cupped the back of her neck with one hand and squeezed, wincing at the muscles and tendons that were stretched to almost breaking point. Well, at least the extra hours spent at her desk achieved her goal.

  Her thoughts had been Drew-free for the first time in days.

  She slowly looked around her office, thankful she had managed to defy her family in this one small matter. Westenberg women were only allowed to occupy their time with committees after charities after tennis matches. The men were the providers. If not, there were always the ever-present trust funds. Archaic, but the Westenbergs prided themselves on being one of the original families on the Mayflower.

  The gallery her parents had so opposed had kept her sane since she first heard the news of Drew’s death. Without it, she would’ve had nothing to turn to. She would’ve retreated to her bed and remained there—and, for all their
antiquated attitudes, Westenberg men and women were not allowed to show weakness.

  Oh, she admittedly was by no means entirely sound. Beneath the smooth exterior she had perfected since her second year at boarding school, Jana was still an emotional wreck. Chances were, she would continue to be one for the unforeseeable future. Her childhood sweetheart had grown into the love of her life, but he had grown out of love with her. Her heart hadn’t understood it had to stop obsessing when the man she loved married another woman. And now, with his death, that highly overrated organ couldn’t stop from mourning as if she had been his wife and not the woman he had slept with once and regretted the moment it was over. Had she been a typical New Yorker with a typical shrink, she would’ve paid off her shrink’s house in the Hamptons by now.

  It was a depressing thought and, once more, Jana was thankful for the gallery.

  After placing a call to her regular taxi service to be in front of the building in fifteen minutes, Jana gathered up her purse and jacket and walked out of her office. It was already dark and gray. The gallery itself, however, was dark and black, but Jana had no problems finding her way around. This gallery, after all, was her baby.

  A small scuffling sound interrupted her thoughts. The sound had come from the stockroom in the back of the gallery. Jana sighed. Evan had probably left the back door ajar after one of his many smoke breaks, allowing another stray cat to find its way into the gallery in search of people with the word sucker stamped on their foreheads. For a Californian, Evan sure did smoke a lot.

  Jana turned around and hurried back to the stockroom. She was a foot away when the door to the stockroom flew open, catching the side of her face and body with enough force to send her crashing awkwardly to the floor. The pain was instant and fiery and everywhere and the lights behind her eyelids so bright they blinded her before it all went dark.

  Chapter Eleven

  Drakkar Noir. The air was liberally perfumed with Drakkar Noir. Too much of a good thing was cloying. No matter how shallow her breaths, the scent filled her nostrils, her mouth, her throat. The heavy taste on her tongue made her stomach roll. Dizziness assailed her. She reached out a hand, needing purchase, and found only the thick, hazy clouds of cologne. Her knees buckled, but she somehow remained upright. Hands out to balance herself, she closed her eyes and, even though she fought it, swallowed hard. That only made the swimming sensation in her head worsen. She wanted to grab her head to make it stop, but her arms, her hands wouldn’t obey her brain’s command. Then she realized it wasn’t only in her head. Her entire body was swaying, but it wasn’t the gentle swaying of a cooling breeze. It wasn’t even her body; it was the floor. It was as if the floor had become a living, breathing thing that wanted to drag her down, cover her, smother her. Panic clawed within her chest, beating against her rib cage.

  She ran, but it was like moving through molasses. Slow. Each step was a hard-fought battle. Then she fell, landed on her back. She tried to get up and couldn’t. Hands, hard and heavy, held her down and she fought wildly. Or as wildly as was possible through air as viscous as molasses.

  “Augusta!”

  Her eyes flew open, and she saw the blur of a face and fought harder. She heard someone call her name repeatedly, focused on the face and the fear bled away. He waited until her breathing slowed before slowly unwrapping his fingers from her upper arms and moving away.

  “Nick.” Her voice was hoarse, as if she had been screaming. Her hand came up to cover her throat. Her pulse beat madly against her fingertips. “What happened? What are you doing here?”

  “Joe said I would find you up here.” He picked up the tan crocheted blanket she had kicked off the daybed where she’d been napping. “He said you’ve been up here all afternoon.”

  Augusta gingerly sat up on the daybed and accepted the cotton blanket. “Thank you.” She covered the bare legs she’d tucked underneath her body, then pushed her hair back and lifted it off her damp neck. “I was dreaming.”

  “More like having a nightmare.”

  “Nightmare…right.” She looked into his face, saw the question in the lift of a single eyebrow and said, “Same dream as before.” There was a sardonic curve to her lips. “I’m never going to be able to look at Drakkar Noir the same way again. Or maybe smell of it is more correct.” She took a deep breath. “Is Joe done?”

  “Yeah. I’ll show you how to work the system later.”

  “Okay.”

  Nick started to go to her, but she shook her head and drew back. He turned and swept a glance around the room, paused at the painting on the easel.

  As he studied her work, she studied him. It was quite the sight to wake up to. She was too pragmatic to think the sight was angelic, heavenly or unearthly in any way, shape or form.

  But that didn’t stop her from forgetting to take a breath or two.

  Broad shoulders, tapered hips, long legs dark against the gold light of the late day sun. If she closed her eyes she could strip away the clothes.

  Her body immediately softened and she had to bite back a moan. Better not go there.

  She breathed deeply. It wasn’t easy.

  Augusta sat up, squeezing her thighs together as if that would stop the quickening there, stop her from wanting him, stop her body from remembering.

  “These all yours?” he asked.

  “Yes.” No inflection in her voice. No embarrassment, no excitement, no pride. She wasn’t looking for approval or opinion. That would make her vulnerable.

  Nick studied the painting sitting on the easel. He couldn’t tear his eyes away from the emotions in the lines and swirls of paint on the canvas. And it was emotions he saw, not so much a picture or an image. It was dark, angry, seething emotions. Other people raged, cursed God, destroyed things. Augusta painted.

  He blinked twice before he could see that it was only the Manhattan skyline. Shadowed buildings, faint light, bruised clouds. A less understanding person might’ve suggested therapy for Augusta Langan. But he’d been there. And he understood only too well.

  “You did this today?”

  “Yes. I’m debating whether or not to put my mark on it.”

  He didn’t tell her that her mark was already in every stroke of paint.

  In the end, Augusta got up and snagged a small brush from the paint can holding a multitude of brushes. She dipped it in a small mound of red, red paint and signed the painting with a few bold strokes.

  “You have amazing talent, Augusta.”

  A corner of her lips lifted. “Thank you. Not many people would agree with you. My work doesn’t have much commercial potential.”

  “Commercial potential?”

  “It’s too…disturbing to hang on your living room wall.” She shrugged and concentrated on cleaning the brush in her hand. “That’s okay. I don’t do it for other people. I do it for me.”

  He glanced at her, wanting to study her face. “It’s very revealing.”

  Had he not been watching her closely, he might’ve missed the slight pause. Then she gave a harsh laugh. “I don’t think that’s a compliment.”

  “It is,” he said quietly. “You should be painting instead of teaching.”

  “I’m getting a chance to do just that.” Her tone was wry, but the loud clang of the brush hitting the bottom of the paint can was telling. “Any closer to finding out who killed Drew?”

  “I can’t discuss an ongoing investigation with you.”

  The look she gave him made him want to kick his own ass. “Of course not.”

  “Augusta,” he began, but she was already shaking her head and turning away from him.

  “Why did you go see Jana Westenberg today?”

  She paused, then turned back. This time, the look she slanted at him was shuttered.

  “If you’re going to interrogate me let me get something from the kitchen to wake me up first.”

  Nick refrained from pointing at the mini-fridge along the back wall. As she wrapped her cotton blanket around her like a shawl—o
r a security blanket—he concluded that she needed a reprieve just as much as she need something to wake her up.

  She stopped short in the doorway of the kitchen, one hand braced against the doorjamb. Her attention was focused on the gleaming contraptions on her counter.

  “What are those?”

  His hands found their way into his pockets. “My coffee maker, coffee grinder and coffee beans.”

  “You take your caffeine addiction seriously,” she remarked, then glanced back at him. “What are they doing in my kitchen?”

  “Because I need a decent cup of coffee in the mornings.”

  She blinked. “How many mornings are you planning on spending here?” There was no inflection in her voice, as if the question was no more than idle curiosity. She could’ve been asking him about the weather.