Ignoring his brother, Conor went back to the office to copy the previous night’s surveillance footage. Despite his protest, seeing Louisa had revved him. But the simultaneous disappearances of the replica knife and two young women tainted his pleasure. There were too many twisted connections in the events with Louisa, her intern, and the museum for Conor’s comfort. Something was brewing.

CHAPTER 7

7

Though no one had noticed her slightly extended lunch, Louisa stayed an extra half hour to make up for the lost time. Walking home on Eighteenth Street, she turned right onto Walnut into Rittenhouse Square. Her phone buzzed, and she fished it out of her purse. Her father? Though they spoke once a week, she always initiated the calls. She couldn’t even remember the last time he’d phoned her. Something must be wrong.

She answered, crossing the street and entering the park. “Daddy?”

“Louisa.” Her father sounded nervous—and more importantly—sober. Since her mother’s death, if Wade Hancock wasn’t working, he was numbing his pain with scotch.

Heart attack and accident scenarios rolled through her mind. “Is something wrong?”

“No.” He hesitated. “I just wanted to talk to you and let you know I’ll be coming to the States for the holidays. I’m thinking of staying for a while.”

“You’re going back to Maine?”

“Why would I go to Maine when you’re in Philadelphia?” he asked. “Anyway, I called to see if I should arrange hotel accommodations”—he paused, nerves hitching in his breath—“or if you might have room for me there.”

Shock silenced her for a minute.

“Are you still there?”

“Yes. I’m here. Is there something wrong, Daddy?” Oh my God. He must be sick. Or dying. Had his liver finally given out under the onslaught of alcohol?

“I’d rather talk in person,” he said. “I haven’t been to your new apartment. I didn’t know how big it is.”

“Of course you can stay with me. I have plenty of room.” She’d chosen the larger available condo based on the premium views. That way, in case her new plan to be more social didn’t work out and she was sitting home alone, at least she’d have something to look at. Thank goodness.

“Great. I’ll e-mail you my itinerary.” Relief edged his voice, and something else she couldn’t identify over the four thousand miles, and the equally large span of grief, that separated them. “Love you.”

“Love you too.”

He ended the call.