“Maybe not willingly,” she said slowly. “But if he was blackmailed. Or someone in his family was threatened…”

“He doesn’t have any family. No long-term girlfriends. No children. No vices that he could be blackmailed with. He is, in short, the perfect bodyguard.”

As I defended him I wondered how much it was rooted in affection, rather than conviction.

“I cannot believe he’d do it,” I said. “But, in light of no other obvious explanations…” I couldn’t finish the sentence.

“Is there anyplace else your dad could be? On the property? I know there’s no basement, but—”

My head jerked up. “The panic room.”

LUCAS 9

LUCAS

9

“I CANNOT BELIEVE I FORGOT—” I strode into my father’s bedroom. “It’s accessed through the bedroom. Where, I don’t know. But surely it’s equipped with a method of communicating with the outside world. He should have been able to call for help.”

I walked around the walls, lifting paintings, mirrors, anything that could conceal a panel. Or would it be as small as a latch? I crouched at the dressing table and began examining the underside.

“Um, the door can’t be in here,” Paige said.

I turned sharply, irritated in spite of myself. “It is. He said it was accessed through the bedroom.”

“The bedroom? Or the bedroom suite? Because there’s no way there’s a hidden room behind any of these walls, Lucas.”

Two sides were exterior walls, the third ran the length of the adjoining bath and the fourth was the length of Troy’s sleeping quarters. Not enough space for a panic closet, much less a room.

I cursed. Thinking before I acted. That had never been a problem before.

Paige was already in the bathroom, mentally taking measurements. She pulled open the door to the walk-in closet. A flick of the light and “Yes! Here, the east wall. Behind it is the kitchen, but there’s plenty of room—”

She stopped, looking down. A sharp inhalation, then she disappeared into the closet, moving fast. I hurried to the doorway.

The closet was in disarray. Someone had haphazardly yanked clothing off hangers, dumped shoes on the floor.

I remembered what Hope had said. A voice, asking how to get into “the room.” The panic room.

Paige was pushing aside hangers, frantically hunting for the door. A stifled gasp. She lifted fingers smeared with blood. There, on the sleeve of a gray suit coat, was a bloody handprint. And at Paige’s feet, a stain on the carpet. More blood smears crossed to the door and likely continued outside, where the dark wood in the bedroom and black marble in the bath had hidden the traces.