kind of lost touch.”
“Good-looking kid. A bit devilish, though. Didn’t he get into some kind of trouble with the law?”
She heard Duncan counting his steps as he came down the hall to the kitchen and assumed his father wasn’t far behind. “I’d rather not talk about Marty.”
“It’s okay.” Alma patted her arm. “I won’t say a word.”
Duncan preceded his father into the kitchen. His clothing was the same as last night: a long-sleeved, striped T-shirt and jeans. At the table, he climbed into his chair and sat, staring straight ahead.
Alma went into action. She measured oat-bran cereal into a clear glass bowl, then measured the milk. She placed them in front of Duncan, then fetched a pre-chilled glass of OJ from the fridge.
Neither she nor Blake said a word.
Madeline assumed this was some sort of ritual and didn’t interfere until Duncan had taken his first bite of cereal. Then she took a seat opposite him and watched as he chewed carefully before swallowing. She smiled. “Good morning, Duncan.”
He said nothing, didn’t acknowledge her presence in any way.
Blake cleared his throat. When she looked at him, he shook his head, warning her not to rock the boat. She rose from her seat and went toward him. Seeing him in the morning light, she noticed the lightly etched crow’s feet at the corners of his eyes and the unshaven stubble on his chin. He dragged his fingers through his unruly dark blond hair. His careless grooming and apparent disarray reminded her of an unmade bed that had been torn apart in a night of wild, sexual abandon.
She intended to discuss her plans for Duncan’s lessons. After his interest in the “Casey at the Bat” poem, she’d decided to use baseball as a learning tool. There were other things she needed to ask Blake about, such as her salary, rules of the household and teaching supplies. But being near him left her tongue-tied.
She pushed her glasses up on her nose and said, “Do you have a baseball?”
“I can find one.”
Her cheeks were warm with embarrassment. Seldom was she so inarticulate. “Other supplies? Pencils and paper?”
“Everything you’ll need is in a room at the end of this hallway. It was once a conservatory so there’s a whole wall of windows. Until the renovations are done, we’re using it as a family room. Alma can show you.”
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