He calculated that the journal, being of such value to Orelia, would be stored somewhere safe.

An entertainment area where visitors would access?

Ah-ha. She’d keep it in a more private place.

A bedroom or study.

To be absolutely certain, he still made a quick circuit around the kitchen, the living and dining areas, and a guest room and bathroom on the bottom floor. After opening doors and closets at lightning speed, he surmised his guess had been correct. The book didn’t appear to be on this level.

As he moved through the house, he marveled at what a successful publishing career could buy. One thing was missing he noted. Despite the interior decoration perfection, where were her personal items?

No photographs of parents or summer vacations, friends, family. Nothing that told of a life story. If he hadn’t seen Orelia come and go from this house over the last few days, he would question whether anyone lived here, or this was a vacant home simply for display. Not a single thing was out of place. No fridge notes, no cup in the sink, a scrap of paper that had missed the trash, or even dust.

He checked his watch.

Twelve minutes had passed and only the ground floor had been searched. He’d used extra seconds to return everything the way he had found it, so it would take her longer to realize someone had been here, if at all. Eighteen increments of a ticking time-bomb clock remained. Or twenty-five, thirty if he pushed his chances.

Now to move upstairs where he suspected lay the most likely hiding place. A worrying thought crossed his mind. What if she’d taken it with her and everything he was doing, the risk he now took, was wasted time?

No, no. He didn’t believe she had, because he sensed it here as if he’d turned into a psychic endowed with a type of divining power. The book was meant to be found by him, so he could stop her.

It might all be in his head but believing was the first step to making it real. He’d read that somewhere and, true or not, he would use the belief to stay positive and focused on the task of being the best burglar in the history of man.

A wide, curved, grand Hollywood style staircase, complete with polished dark wooden steps and an iron balustrade, wound its way to the second floor. He stared up, placing one foot on the first step and sensed a hum in the air.

The book was up there. It called to him.

It made perfect sense to keep a valuable item in your bedroom or study, very nearby while you slept. Or plotted how to bring down a friend and destroy his life. Just the thought of what she’d done gave him courage to take another step, then another, until he reached the second level.

Upstairs, the décor and design stunned him even more. An enormous, magnificent lead-light circular window overlooked the stairs. The pattern of green stems and orange and yellow tulip heads, created a colored tapestry on the pristine, thick alabaster white carpet. No expense spared for Orelia’s private living areas. This was something else. She had sold this many books? Really?