Perfect in My Sight (17 page)

“
Perhaps someone doesn
’
t want you here,
”
Mel continued,
“
but I cannot think it is he. Promise me,
”
she demanded.
“
Promise me you will remain on your guard.
”

“
I must,
”
Sarah agreed, and vowed to redouble her efforts.

It certainly wouldn
’
t do them any good at all for her to lose her heart to a murderer—not that she was
losing her heart, mind you! But she was certainly a fool to have given him the benefit
of the doubt.

She wouldn
’
t do so again.

In her frustration, she tore at the frayed edge, pulling it away from the frame.
“
Blast!
”
she exclaimed.

“
I broke it!
”
But curiosity led her to peer inside. She pulled the backing off a little further
to find that the picture displayed was folded within. Her heart beat a little faster
as she ripped the backing and pried out the picture, trying not to tear it. Her hands
were trembling as she unfolded it.

“
What is it?
”
Mel asked her.

Sarah swallowed the lump that appeared in her throat as she stretched out the portrait
and turned it to face her. She tried not to weep as she stared at the full portrait
of herself and Mary together. It had been folded so that only Mary was visible, but
Sarah had been tucked neatly beneath.

Mary had not cut her so completely out of her life.

The knowledge flooded her heart with joy. She flipped the portrait over, only to find
something scribbled upon the back in Mary
’
s neat penmanship.

Out of sight... not out of mind. I love and miss you, dearest Sarah.

CHAPTER
18

“And you never saw her before she answered your ad for employment?”

Peter considered the detective’s question. He couldn’t help but feel he knew her somehow,
but it was less her face he recognized, and more her manner. “Never,” he replied with
certainty. But it was about damned time he discovered who his houseguest was.

He had hesitated to hire a detective until he’d learned of Mrs. Frank’s inquiries
last eve. Caitlin had come to him quite concerned over what had begun as a casual
conversation. It had, shortly thereafter, turned into an interrogation of sorts, and
she’d been heartily afraid that she’d spoken out of turn.

He’d called an agency at once—though not the same he’d hired after Mary’s death. Still,
he wasn’t certain how he felt about doing this once again. The last time he’d hired
an agency, they hadn’t discovered a bloody thing pertinent to Mary’s murder. In the
detective’s estimation, Mary had simply been the hapless victim of a robbery gone
bad, and yet the man had turned around and sold her journals to the tabloids—all but
one, because Peter had never been able to find the key to open it, and by the time
he’d decided to destroy the little lock, the detective had already leaked her journals
to the yellow press. Peter had locked away the last of her journals afterward, without
ever having read them. He hadn’t been brave enough to hear Mary’s final words.

“You say she was asking questions?” the detective asked Caitlin.

“Yes, sir,” she replied.

“What sort of questions?”

“Well...” Caitlin seemed afraid to meet his gaze while she spoke, and Peter thought
she was feeling guilty for disclosing so much. “No’ much tae begin with,” she said.
“She was just wantin’ tae know was it me there that night, and I did tell her that
yes, it was.” She turned to Peter then, and swore, “But I didna tell her anythin’
really, Mr. Holland. I swear tae God, I didna!”

“It’s all right, Caitlin. You did nothing wrong,” he assured her. “It’s not like my
affairs aren’t already public knowledge.”

She knew what he was referring to and her face flushed with color. If it hadn’t been
for her disclosure of his condition that night so long ago, he might well be behind
prison walls this instant.

“I’m sae sorry if I spoke out of turn,” she told him, “but I didna think I was tellin’
her anythin’ she couldna find out from anybody else.”

“It’s all right, Caitlin,” Peter repeated. “I’m glad you came to me.”

“Between this and her resume,” the detective interjected, “we’ve a pretty good start.”

“If you look at her resume... she has a reference at the Institute, as well,” Peter
suggested. “Perhaps Mr. John Cock might shed some light for us.”

“Did you ever speak with him?”

Peter’s face heated a bit. He hadn’t. He hadn’t even considered it.

“I’ll speak to him first,” the detective suggested. “Thank you Dave,” Peter said,
rising from his seat to see him off. “I have every faith you will get to the bottom
of this.”

“I shall certainly try.”

Peter came around from his desk and shook his hand.

“Good day, Miss O’Connell,” the detective said, and then left with Sarah Hopkins’
portfolio in hand.

Peter had little doubt they would have their answers soon. The man was supposed to
be good.

If Sarah had left them a trail to follow, then he would sniff it down.

Peter hadn’t precisely objected to her taking Christopher to the park, but Sarah had
the distinct impression he hadn’t truly relished the idea.

He’d been behaving rather strangely the last week and a half, watching her a little
too intently, as though he were waiting... for what?

She was afraid that he’d discovered the truth and was merely watching for her to trip
herself up. And yet he hadn’t given her the first clue that he had.

She and Christopher, along with Mellie, had spent the afternoon enjoying a concert
in the park. The three of them had sat upon blankets, enjoying the unusually warm
March weather, and wishing the day would never end—at least, Sarah had wished it.

Christopher had fallen asleep in her lap, his little head resting sweetly upon her
breast. And she had adored every moment of the embrace. He was such an insightful
little boy, full of energy and ambition, and in every word he spoke of his father,
his love and admiration were apparent.

Sarah had found herself viewing Peter through very different eyes—through the eyes
of his blind son.

Christopher didn’t seem particularly concerned about making his father proud. In fact,
he seemed to hold little doubt of his father’s esteem.

How could a man who could make a child feel so special be a murderer?

Peter Holland was a mystery, to be certain.

With Mel leading the way now, and lamenting the distance they had yet to go, she and
Christopher held hands as they left the park and crossed Fifth Avenue. She listened
to Christopher’s exuberant renditions of the afternoon’s concertos and smiled at his
natural aptitude for music. Sarah wondered if it had to do with the fact that he seemed
to remember entire passages so easily ... He seemed to have incredible hearing and
memory capacity. And his sense of smell was uncanny!

While Christopher had begun the day quite reticently, he was beginning to spiral out
of his natural reserve into a rather boisterous little boy. She was so caught up in
his enthusiasm, it wasn’t until they reached the Twin Vanderbilt Mansions that she
began to feel a sense of unease... as though they were being watched...

It wasn’t difficult to remain inconspicuous on New York City’s streets.

With the bustle of activity from Central Park at the end of the concert, Fifth Avenue
was a melee. Peter followed his son and two female companions, remaining at a safe
distance as they made their way home.

He hadn’t trusted her alone with his son.

She might be beautiful as hell, but she was a conniving little witch, and he was bound
and determined to discover what it was she was after. Her interest in Christopher
had been quite clear from the first—she couldn’t fake that kind of sincerity—but what
did she want with him?

Peter had stood apart from them, watching while they’d enjoyed the concert. With no
one about to scrutinize her every move, she hadn’t even attempted to carry on with
her pretense, other than that she had retained the use of her dark spectacles. Her
attention, however, had been wholly upon Christopher, and her gaze clearly drawn to
his son’s every gesture. The way that she watched him, in fact, gave Peter a strange
sense of familiarity about her.

He knew three things for certain after this morning: One, Sarah Hopkins was most definitely
not blind. Two, for whatever reason, she cared about his son. And three, he couldn’t
stop thinking of her.

God, just watching her walk made him stiff as a cleric’s collar. And the thought of
her lying within his bath last night had made him as hard as steel. Christ, he’d sat
within his office, considering an investment proposal for a new restaurant akin to
Delmonico’s, and unable to concentrate on anything but the workings of his vivid imagination.

In his mind he had been able to see her lying within his enormous tub. He saw her,
as in a dream, rise up from the frothy suds, her hair wet and rivulets of water and
soap streaming down her face. He saw those moist lashes open and her blue eyes rivet
upon him, and his blood simmered.

Even here, amid the masses, and though he could but see her at a distance, he found
himself aroused by the thought of her.

But it was more than that.

The sight of her sitting there in the park with his son, holding him so intimately...
had begun to give him insane thoughts. Somehow that gentle image made him yearn for
something he’d not dared to yearn for in far too long.

Only this time he understood the perils of believing in a myth: There were no happily-ever-afters.

And yet, until now, he hadn’t even considered the possibility of trying again. He
had been perfectly content to simply be Christopher’s father.

He was still content to be Christopher’s father, but suddenly he went to bed at night...
and his hand reached into the cold space beside him... and his thoughts drifted to
the room next door... and his loins hardened against the bed.

He never thought of Cile there anymore... in his bed. Nor was it any longer simply
a means to satisfy his needs.

There were new needs he yearned to fill... needs he had never known he possessed...
needs he had not even known with Mary.

Somehow this woman, this stranger in his home, had managed to awaken something within
him that he’d never known existed. He’d heard of love but had never given it any credence.
He hadn’t believed in love—not with Mary—at least not love such as that lauded by
the poets. No, but he had loved Mary... he just hadn’t been in love with her. He had
adored so much about her, but she hadn’t invaded his every waking thought.

Sarah had.

Damn her to hell.

He was following too close, he realized suddenly.

Sarah turned to glance over her shoulder and stared. For an instant he couldn’t tell
whether she had caught him, or was simply curious about something occurring behind
him. When she turned around once more, dismissing him, he decided it was the latter
and waited until they crossed the street before he continued after them.

They were definitely being followed. And Sarah was furious, though she knew she hadn’t
the right to be.

He didn’t trust her—not that she particularly deserved that trust, but she was angered
nonetheless, which didn’t make the least bit of sense.

Was she hurt that he had somehow judged her and found her guilty?

Or was she angry with herself for failing?

What did he know? And why was he following?

She suddenly couldn’t think. “Take Christopher’s hand, Mel, please.”

Mel turned and gave her a quizzical look. “Is something the matter, Sarah?”

Sarah didn’t wish to make a scene. She certainly didn’t wish Christopher to become
aware of his father’s presence, and less did she wish Peter to know that she had spied
him. “Nothing,” she assured, “I just have a bit of fatigue is all.”

“Oh, dear... well, it has been quite a long day,” Mel agreed, and took Christopher’s
hand in her own. She hesitated before crossing the street and led Christopher along
to the next corner.

Sarah had to force herself not to peer nervously over her shoulder.

Calm yourself.

Think, Sarah, you need to think.

Perhaps he hadn’t intended to follow them at all. Perhaps he had merely spied them
together and was curious to see how they fared. He had no reason to suspect her after
all. She’d been particularly careful in and out of his presence. There was nothing
Sarah could point to that would say, This is the instant he would doubt her.

Had he spied her just a minute ago peering over her shoulder? Had she given herself
away with her actions this afternoon? Had he watched them even at the park? Blast
him!

Blast herself for not considering the risks!

Ahead of her, Christopher rambled on in an excited fashion, eager to tell his father
about the afternoon’s diversions. If Sarah hadn’t been so distracted by the rat pursuing
them, she would have felt overjoyed by his boyish enthusiasm. It was the first time
he’d ever displayed such unbounded energy.

This was the little boy she had expected to find, not the quiet little sage she’d
encountered.

She stepped into the street behind Mel and Christopher and couldn’t help herself.
She turned around to see if he was still following. She didn’t see him. Not anywhere.
Perhaps he hadn’t been following them after all. Perhaps he’d simply spied them and
out of curiosity had watched them together a moment before carrying on with his affairs.
He wasn’t there... not anywhere at all. She searched the passing crowds, hoping that
he wasn’t ensconced in some doorway, watching from some hidden perch.

Sarah was so preoccupied with studying the crowd that she didn’t hear the thunder
of approaching hooves... or the deadly clatter of carriage wheels.

Peter saw it too late.

He’d crossed back over Fifth Avenue to watch from a safer distance, and was helpless
now to do any more than watch with terror as Sarah stood in the middle of the street.
He told himself the driver would spy her—impossible not to—but his speed increased.

And still she stood there, wholly unaware of the death rattle at her back.

Christ! Was she deaf?

“Sarah!” he shouted, and took a panicked step forward.

He couldn’t reach her in time.