Chapter 4

      “Seen?” Pen jerked up her head, sending him a look of dismay, then shot a glance around the backyard. “By who—”

      Reid put a hand on her shoulder and moved to block her view. “No, don’t look. You’ll only look more suspicious. Carry yourself in a manner that says you have every right to be here, that you don’t care who sees you.”

      She straightened her back. “I do have a right to be here. It’s my childhood home. I—” She stopped, pitching her voice lower, and twisted her mouth as if rethinking her assessment. “Well, if I’m not welcome to come as I please, he could take away my key. But he hasn’t, so...”

      Before she could unlock the back door, the knob rattled, and the door swung open. A woman in her late fifties with graying brown hair and a black maid’s uniform gave them a curious look. “May I help...? Oh, Miss Penelope! I thought I heard someone back here.”

      “Helen.” Pen sounded breathless and nervous, but squared her shoulders. “Hello. I didn’t want to bother you, but I just needed...”

      Reid tensed when Pen hesitated. It seemed they were about to test Penelope’s welcome at her father’s estate.

      “Um...to look for something from my old room. Something of my mother’s.”

      Reid hid his relief over Pen’s smooth lie. He hoped Helen hadn’t heard the same flutter of nerves in her voice that he had.

      “Of course. Is it something I can help with?” Helen waved a hand down the back hall as she stood aside to admit them.

      Reid mentally scratched B and E off the list of crimes they were flirting with.

      “No. No, I don’t want to bother you. Reid can help me look.” Pen smiled at the maid and waited for Helen to return to whatever she’d been doing before heading down the long dark hall. He followed her as she moved quietly through the house, bypassing the kitchen where the clank of dishes and a woman’s humming could be heard. She led him up a back staircase not nearly as grand as the wide marble one with polished wood banisters he remembered from past visits to the house. Their footsteps were muted on the thick white carpet, and he could imagine Penelope as a teenager, sneaking up these quiet and more hidden stairs after her curfew.

      Pen led him down the upstairs hall, past numerous closed doors, and she paused, casting a surveying glance around before crossing the landing at the top of the grand staircase in the foyer. Reid looked over the balustrade to the cold marble entryway he remembered from previous trips to his family lawyer’s house. A sparkling crystal chandelier hung over the foyer and replicas of Greek statutes in white stone and Italian urns in hues of gray and black were positioned around the walls. For all its opulence, the foyer lacked color and gave visitors no sense of warmth or welcome. Much like the other rooms Reid had visited. Much like the man who owned the home. In Reid’s opinion, Hugh Barrington loved the idea of being respected, admired, even envied for his position and wealth, but did little to earn it on a personal level.

      The man might have been one of Eldridge’s closest advisers and confidants, he might have come to Reid’s defense when suspicion was thrown at him following Andrew’s death, but Hugh Barrington was a hard person to feel any affection or warmth for. Appreciation, maybe. Polite friendliness out of respect for his alliance with and assistance concerning Eldridge, but hardly the sort of Hallmark greeting-card feelings that engendered real esteem. Hugh’s priorities simply seemed oddly skewed. Case in point, his disregard for Penelope, while he fawned—rather obsequiously, in Reid’s opinion—over the Colton family.

      “Is there a problem?” Penelope asked in a hushed tone.

      He shook himself from his thoughts and caught up to her. “No. Why?”

      “You seemed preoccupied and so...serious.” She waved a dismissive hand and gave her head a brisk shake. “Never mind. Come on. That’s his home office.” She aimed her finger down the hall to a door that stood ajar. “The second room on the left.”

      He nodded. “After you.”

      She balked, and he lifted a corner of his mouth in a wry grin.

      “Are you scared to go in there?”

      Penelope scowled. “No.” Then after a beat, “Not...really.” But she still made no move to enter Hugh’s study.

      “You said you had a right to be here,” he teased.

      “I do!” She squared her shoulders, then glared at him. “It was your idea to come here and search!”

      “Hey, you called me when you found that file.” He folded his arms over his chest. “Do you really want to stand out here and waste time arguing over who is more responsible for us being here? Or do you want to get in, find the evidence we need to incriminate—”

      “Or clear!”

      “Or clear him,” he conceded, though he was skeptical. “We should get busy.”

      She glanced guiltily at her father’s office door, but straightened her spine and, wiping her hands on her yoga pants, marched into the room.

      Reid paused at the threshold of Hugh’s office, taken aback by the contrast of the man’s study to the other parts of the house. As stark and colorless as the entry and living room were, Barrington’s private study was dark with deep browns, crimsons and polished brass. The room reeked of masculinity, right down to the lingering musky scent of Hugh’s overpowering aftershave. The walls were wood paneled and the matching desk, bookcases and file cabinets were made of darkly stained hardwoods. The couch and desk chair were a rich burgundy leather. A slight patina of age dimmed the brass of the grommets on the seat coverings, the furniture hardware and the lampstands. He drew two pairs of latex gloves from his pocket and held one out to her. “Here. Wear these. You may feel you have a legal right to be here, but let’s not leave fingerprints, just in case.”

      She eyed the gloves he handed her, then with a furrow of worry denting her brow, she worked her fingers into the latex encasement.

      “Look at all this. This could take forever,” she said pulling out a drawer of his filing cabinet.

      Reid closed the office door behind him. “If there is information here somewhere that incriminates him, my guess is it won’t be anywhere obvious like a file cabinet or desk drawer.”

      She gave him a dubious look. “We’re talking about a man who hasn’t changed his home security code in twenty-five years. He’s smugly overconfident about his security. Andrew tried to talk to him numerous times about safety issues, but he insisted his status quo was good enough.”

      Reid nodded. “His hubris may work in our favor. Just the same, check for out-of-the-way cubbyholes. Even an overconfident old-schooler probably