She hesitated, stopped.
"Look at me."
Slowly she turned around to face him.
"I love you."
Her face lit up and she gave him a smile of such sweetness, his heart ached. And he knew he would never forget this moment. The night pressing dark against the window. The glow of the table light throwing shadows against the wall. The woman in the door with her luminous hair and pale face looking like an angel.
"And I you." Another smile and she was gone.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
The phone was ringing.
Gabriel jerked awake. Outside his window it was day, but the sky was miserably gray. How long had he slept for?
He grabbed the receiver. "Minnaloushe?"
For a moment there was silence. Then Frankie's voice came on the line. "No. But it looks as though we won't have to worry about that bitch anymore, Gabriel."
As he drew in his breath in protest, he suddenly realized Frankie knew nothing of what had happened between him and Minnaloushe the night before. She still thought Minnaloushe was the killer. He pushed himself up on one elbow, tried to focus on her words.
"What do you mean?"
"I mean she's dead."
The breath left his body in an explosive gasp. The room tilted and actual physical pain gripped his chest. He tried to speak but the words refused to come.
"Yes," Frankie continued happily. "I couldn't believe it when I opened the paper. Go check it out. It's in the early edition of the Evening Standard. Apparently she fell down the stairs at her house and broke her neck. Poetic justice, wouldn't you say? Gabriel, are you there?"
He did not bother getting dressed. He threw on his coat and pulled his boots over his bare feet. His hands were shaking so badly, he was unable to tie the laces, and in the end he simply pushed the ends into the ankle flaps. As he ran down the stairs, he found himself silently saying one word over and over again: No. No. No. Maybe Frankie had it wrong. Maybe Minnaloushe had only been injured. No. No.
The teenager behind the counter at the newsstand stared at him as he snatched the paper and dropped a five-pound note on the counter. He left the shop not waiting for change.
The report was at the bottom of page 12 in the Londoner's Diary section and consisted of two paragraphs only.
FATAL ACCIDENT TAKES LIFE OF WOMAN Minnaloushe Monk (36) died instantly in the early hours of the morning when she suffered sudden loss of respiratory function after falling down the staircase of her house in London, Chelsea, and fracturing her neck. Ms. Monk was well-known for her contributions to various philanthropic concerns. Her sister, the well-known adventure sportswoman Morrighan Monk, witnessed the accident and is being treated for shock.
Every day about 1000 falls take place on stairs or steps in the United Kingdom. Three or four of these will be fatal. There are many reasons why falls happen, but the main contributing factors are thought to be poor eyesight, poor lighting or the use of alcohol.
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
The sky was gray with intermittent rain.
He was shivering violently and his face felt raw from the cold. He had been standing on the street corner for almost an hour. But the thought of leaving did not cross his mind. All his attention was focused on the big redbrick house on the other side of the road.
It was five o'clock in the afternoon and dusk was well advanced. Most of the houses in the street showed lighted windows, but the rooms in Monk House were dark. On the porch, the big tubs filled with blue chrysanthemums appeared neglected, as though no one was around to pay attention. The shallow steps, usually swept clean of leaves and debris, were dirty. A chocolate wrapper was trapped in the wrought iron work of the front gate, which was half open. The house seemed deserted.
But Gabriel knew it was not. It was occupied. He sensed it.
He sensed her.
The cold was intense. He became aware of his arms and legs cramping as he unconsciously fought against the shivers running through his body. A few fat raindrops fell on his face. The wind plucked at his scarf.
Blowing onto his frozen hands in an attempt to warm them, he quickly crossed the street and pushed the garden gate open to its fullest extent. He took the front steps two at a time. Without giving himself more time to think about it, he pressed the doorbell.
He waited. Nothing stirred.
The heavy velvet curtains in the downstairs window were open, the window only covered by the old-fashioned net curtains. But the two lacy panels did not quite meet in the middle, and through the gap he was just able to make out the room and, farther back in the passage, a glimpse of the elegant curve of the staircase.
For a moment the memories came flooding back. His first legitimate visit to Monk House. He was standing at the foot of the staircase, admiring its graceful proportions. Next to him Minnaloushe, cool and lovely in a summer dress. And he remembered her exact words. I love staircases, she had said. I won't be able to live in a place without one. I believe they're essential to anyone wanting to live an interesting life.
For a moment he closed his eyes, the pain of the memory so intense, he found himself involuntarily touching his chest. And on the heels of this memory, another image. A woman falling backward down the stairs, arms like pale petals grabbing uselessly at the banisters to stop her fall, rolling, rolling downward-a flurry of legs, arms, red hair, white neck angled crazily.
He opened his eyes and breathed shallowly. Turning away from the window, he placed his finger on the doorbell once again, pressing down and holding it for a full five seconds.
Nothing. Everything was quiet.
Maybe he was wrong. Maybe she had deserted this place, after all.
Something stirred at the periphery of his vision. He turned his head.
She had pushed one of the white net curtains to one side, and the darkened window now formed a perfect frame, as though she was putting herself on display. Pale face, pale dress, pale hands. Her hair a black snake falling over one shoulder.
She watched him expressionlessly from behind the pane of glass.
He wasn't sure she would be able to hear him through the window so he raised his voice.
"Morrighan, open the door!"
The movement of her head almost imperceptible.
"Please. I need to talk to you."
Nothing. No reaction. Her eyes black hollows. Behind the pane of glass she appeared as motionless as any exhibit in a museum.
"Damn you!" The anger boiled up in him, rising through his body like fast-burning acid.
She pressed her palm against the window. Her hand looked like a white moth. The gesture reinforced the idea of something on display. What did it mean: Stop? No further?
She was mouthing something. At first he did not comprehend but then he realized what she was saying. An accident. It was an accident.
"No!"
I never touched her.
"I don't believe you!"
She moved her shoulders indifferently. She didn't care.
"It does not end here." He didn't know if she could hear him. He raised his voice again. "It does not end here!"
He felt something touch him: a bolt of menace from her mind directed straight at him. An unambiguous warning. It had the impact of a physical blow, pushing him backward so that he almost fell.
Shocked, he steadied himself by placing his hand against the wall. It had felt as though she had reached invisibly through the window and punched him with great force in the chest. He had never experienced anything like it before.
Don't make me come after you. She mouthed the words slowly, precisely. Her eyes black as space.
She turned to go. For a moment he saw her profile: the profile of a huntress.
Then the curtains dropped, and the house was quiet once more.