I picked a jagged ribbon of canvas off the floor, ran it through my fingers and let it fall. The sheer energy of the slashing spree turned my stomach. I made myself get up and walk about the galleries, pausing for a few seconds in front of each frame. Shreds of paper and canvas still clung to the backing boards here and there, but most were scattered across the floor: the whites and the auburns, the pale greens and yellows, the pinkish shades he’d used to depict my skin. All the glass-fronted frames had been shattered, so I had to be careful where I trod with my bare feet.

Last night’s plates and glasses were tidied away and the pile of damp coats had vanished. I had to search hard for evidence that the party had happened at all—for the odd, grubby print of a high-heeled shoe, for pastry crumbs on the floor, for a flimsy polka-dot umbrella forgotten on the porch. Cory must have been alone when he took his knife to the paintings. The guests must have said their goodbyes, and the waitresses cleared up and left, before he began. I wondered whether anyone had sensed his unease. Were the girls whispery and afraid as they washed the last of the champagne flutes and hurried them into their crates?

The front door was wide open. I glanced at the garden as I meandered round the hall and thought how innocent it looked, washed and purified by last night’s rain. The mist had lifted, and the trees made clean lines against the white November sky. Beyond the end of the lawn the sea rose up, meeting the clouds in a neatly ruled horizon.

The violence of Cory’s rage—that’s what I couldn’t take in. I toured the galleries for a second time, ending up in the hall, and my fingers kept returning to the stinging cut on my throat. Only Lady Caroline remained intact in the shadows, complacently observing the wreckage, and me.

Heavy footsteps crunched over the gravel toward the house and I retreated upstairs. I ought to have gone to the kitchen and forced a window, or grabbed a knife of my own, but Cory had reached the front door and it was too late for second thoughts.

He came inside without a word and stopped. I heard him take a few more cautious steps and stop again. What was he doing? Listening? Sniffing me out? I backed into the bathroom because at least it had a lock—but I failed to notice how wet the floor was. I slipped and floundered, making a noisy grab at the door to stop myself from falling over.