Nightshade resumed pacing, hands clasped behind her back. “Please continue with your examination.”
Emma rotated Sophie’s head to the front again.
Nightshade acted like a medical examiner testing an incompetent student, and Emma fought the urge to punch her in the face. That’s what her dad would have done, but fortunately for Nightshade, Emma took after her mother more than her father.
With mounting reluctance, Emma used the magnifying lens again. “The wound has a dark ring around it.”
“Skin abrasion,” Nightshade said. “No powder burn?”
“Not that I can see. The hole is not quite circular. The skin is raised more at the top edge.” The tiny details—the pores of Sophie’s skin beneath her foundation, dried blood, minute cracks in the skull—all poured into Emma’s mind in horrifying clarity, snapshot after gory snapshot, threatening a new migraine.
Oblivious to Emma’s turmoil, Nightshade gave a thoughtful nod. “The perpetrator was standing a little way away, in front of our princess, and at around the same height. Maybe a smidge shorter. They hid inside the warrior, it swung open, and . . .”
Emma couldn’t help staring at the bullet hole in the middle of Sophie’s forehead. It was grotesquely hypnotic.
“Details,” Nightshade said in a low voice. “You notice the little things. Remember?”
Emma looked away and caught sight of Sophie’s baby bump, which she’d tried hard to avoid looking at, and her stomach heaved.
In there, once wrapped in a cocoon of flesh and warmth, was her father’s unborn child and Emma’s half-brother: a life she would now never meet.
A sudden rush of determination coursed through Emma’s veins, which radiated from the pit of her stomach, through her chest, and along her arms. She clenched her fists as anger pushed away her repulsion.
Now she wanted vengeance.
12
Emma took deep breaths as anger filled her insides. She checked Sophie’s face and head for evidence. “Nothing.” Annoyed she hadn’t found anything to indicate an obvious killer, Emma used the magnifying glass to examine the rest of Sophie’s body.
She peered at the fabric of her dress, down to the weave, then moved along each arm, stopping at the tattoo of the gladiator’s helmet on the inside of Sophie’s right wrist. On the helmet’s chin plate was that X done in dark-blue ink, but no other additions.
Next, Emma examined Sophie’s hands. She checked under the fingernails but found nothing there either.
Undaunted, Emma continued with the examination. She scanned the rest of Sophie’s body, down her legs, and then removed Sophie’s high heels and looked at both the soles and insoles before she set them aside.
After another glance over Sophie’s neck and chest, making sure she had missed no important details like a bruise or a blood blister, Emma returned the magnifying glass to the case. “I’m done.”
Nightshade gestured to Sophie’s bag.
Still wearing the latex gloves, Emma examined the handbag. The front pocket was partly unzipped, so she opened it fully. She found nothing inside, so Emma removed the main contents of the bag one by one: smartphone, lipstick, compact, purse—which was empty apart from a credit card and a driving licence—packet of tissues, a woman’s Rolex, a couple of hairbands and a lip balm.
Emma picked up the phone. “Locked.” She groaned, and used Sophie’s cold thumb to unlock it.
A quick scan of the text messages showed the last was a brief exchange between Sophie and Jacob:
J: Hey. There’s a crate here I think you should see.
You: I’m off to the Broadstone Ball with Richard. Can’t get away for ages. What’s in it?
Jacob had then attached a photo of the open crate with the terracotta warrior inside.
You: I’ll be there as soon as I can. I’ll try and get away around 2. Probably be later.
J: Hurry. It’s leaving at 4:30 a.m.
Emma’s stomach tightened and she angled the screen toward Nightshade. “Look at the picture. The warehouse lights were on at that point.”
Nightshade scratched her head. “Hmm. It seems as though Jacob has some explaining to do.”
The last reply came from Sophie at 2:37 in the morning: Leaving now.
Emma changed the phone’s override code to something she could remember. Then she picked up the Rolex and hefted its weight. “This is odd.”
Nightshade inclined her head. “How so?”
“Firstly, Sophie never wore a watch. Secondly, it’s broken.” Emma held it so that Nightshade could see the hands, both stuck on twelve. “And the biggest problem of all . . .” Emma looked at the serial number etched into the back plate, then examined the face again. “This is a fake.” She put it down on the table. “No way would Sophie have worn this.”
Sophie made a point of wearing only the most exquisite clothes and jewellery. She always looked her best. In fact, Emma had never seen her in a pair of sweats and a baggy shirt, and couldn’t imagine Sophie lounging, stuffing her face with chocolate, and watching mindless TV like a normal person. Sophie always shone.
“Then we can assume the watch didn’t belong to our princess.” Nightshade nodded at the case. “Fingerprints.”
Emma removed the kit and, under Nightshade’s tutelage, first she took Sophie’s fingerprints, then dusted the watch, but it was clean. No prints: not even Sophie’s, whereas the phone was covered in them.
Emma compared those prints to Sophie’s. “They look the same.” She sealed the fake Rolex inside a clear wallet, did the same with the phone, and pocketed them both.
Next, Emma pulled out the modified plug, which had shorted the warehouse’s power, and dusted that for prints too. Nada. “Hold on.” Emma hurried to the main warehouse and dusted the interior of the terracotta warrior, since the killer must have spent some time in there, but again found nothing.
Back in the workshop, Emma was about to return the remaining items to the handbag when she spotted something else unusual and leaned down.
Nightshade edged closer. “What have you found?”
Emma slid a folded piece of paper from the inside pocket of the bag. She held it up to the light, then set the paper on the table in front of Nightshade.
After a quick dust for prints gave no results, Emma flattened the thick paper with her gloved fingers, revealing letters and numbers written in cursive. The writing was blotted and scratchy—as though the author had used a quill—and barely legible in places. The paper itself was a yellowish parchment, either old or stained to make it look that way.
It read:
ietbcjfq c qee tbee jlw tblu sot ql glw
sq lje kesk cj tbe hlttli lp s tlih
51 30 34.6 0 07 41.2
Nightshade pointed at the letters. “My hunch is these are a cypher.”
“Where’s it from? And why does Sophie have it?” Emma had read all about cyphers when she’d studied the Kryptos sculpture back in her art college days.
“Brute force won’t crack the code because it’s too short,” Nightshade said. “Without knowing the keyword, we have little chance of decoding the message.” She squinted at the numbers at the bottom. “What do you suppose they represent?”
Emma pursed her lips. “Not sure.” Even though the numbers seemed familiar to her, she couldn’t quite place them. “We’ll ask Dad. See if he knows what the code is for.”
She fetched a grip seal bag from Nightshade’s crime-scene case and slipped the parchment inside, then into her pocket with the phone and watch. Emma returned the tools and went to close the case, but Nightshade held up a hand.
“There is something else.” She pointed to a pouch nestled in the top left-hand corner, above the microscope.
Emma unfastened it, loosened the drawstring, and pulled out a Magic 8-Ball toy. “I had one of these when I was a kid. Why do you have one in here?” She gave the ball a shake and the message ‘Better not tell you now’ appeared in the window.
Having taken one apart before, Em
ma knew that inside was a twenty-sided die with an answer on each face. The die floated in liquid, and when you shook it, it would spin and then float to the surface, presenting one random face of the die to the window.
“Keep hold of it,” Nightshade said. “I’ll explain later.”
Emma slipped the Magic 8-Ball into her hoodie pocket. She closed the crime-scene case and fastened it. Then she pulled up her hood and slipped on her sunglasses with a sigh of relief.
Emma made for the door but stopped short. She took a deep breath, turned back, snatched a stack of cotton dust sheets from the nearest shelf, and wrapped Sophie’s body, starting with her legs.
“Good idea, darling,” Nightshade said. “Covering her is more dignified than dumping Sophie somewhere in just her ballgown. We must give her respect and dignity in death. Everyone deserves that.”
Emma finished with the legs and then moved to the arms. “You know, I could do with some help.”
“No need, when you’re doing such a wonderful job.” Nightshade flexed her gloved fingers and stayed where she was. “Besides, how will you ever learn the craft?”
Emma raised an eyebrow at her. “What craft? Mummification? Am I planning to go to Ancient Egypt?”
Nightshade looked away.
Emma continued with her work, while images of Sophie filled her thoughts—her outspoken vibrancy; her sweet, trilling, singsong voice; and the way she tipped her head back and to the side when she laughed. Emma already missed her.
After what seemed like an eternity, she tied the last dust sheet around Sophie and stepped back. “Well? What do you think?”
Nightshade gazed at the wall. “What if we are all living in a computer simulation whose sole purpose is to find the cure for cancer, and once it discovers that cure . . . poof. We’re all deleted.”
Emma glared at her. “What? No, I mean with the wrapping. What do you think of it?”
Nightshade blinked, looked at Sophie and clapped a hand over her heart. “Beautiful job, Emma. Bravo. So dignified.” She slipped the pill tin from her pocket, plucked out a red capsule, and swallowed it. “Can you show me a map on your phone?”
Frowning, Emma brought up the application.
Nightshade looked over her shoulder, asked her to zoom in on an area a few miles away, and then smiled. “That looks perfect.”
13
Nightshade walked to the workshop door and called for Raul. He entered with Francesca Rossi—the Greco family accountant. Sure enough, Francesca had a few of her trademark black and ginger cat hairs plastered along the right arm of her cardigan.
Raul and Francesca looked uneasy as they glanced at Sophie’s wrapped body on the workbench.
“Do you know where these woods are?” Nightshade gestured to Emma’s phone.
Emma held it up while they examined the map.
“I do,” Raul said.
Nightshade pointed at the body. “Please take Princess Sophie and place her in the woods, far enough from the nearest path that she won’t get noticed right away. We need time.”
“No,” Emma said.
All eyes moved to her.
“I want to take Sophie myself.” She lifted her chin. “I’ll do it.”
“There’s no need, darling.” Nightshade gave her a dismissive wave. “Raul and Francesca can take care of her. We must stay behind. We have someone to interview.”
Emma shook her head, determined. “It should be me.” She remembered the last time she’d seen Sophie, the way they’d chatted about the baby and the future. Sophie had been so excited about her upcoming wedding. “I’m doing it.” Emma looked at Nightshade. “What did you say to me earlier? We give her respect and dignity in death. Everyone deserves that.”
“Well, not everyone,” Nightshade muttered.
“Yes. Everyone.” Emma offered her a sad smile.
Nightshade sighed. “Okay. Fine.” She turned to Raul. “Would you mind assisting her?”
“You don’t want us to bury the body?” Raul asked as he scooped Sophie into his arms.
Nightshade kept her eyes on Emma. “We need some poor soul to find her.” She crossed herself. “Not right away, but within the next few days.”
Emma understood. Nightshade was buying time for them to continue their investigation. Hopefully, no one would discover Sophie’s body before they found the killer, or they’d have the added complication of awkward questions from the police to contend with.
Nightshade faced Francesca. “We still require your services. Please go with them.” She whispered into Emma’s ear, “Make sure you’re never left alone with one person, understood? At least two other people at all times.”
Emma nodded, and began to walk toward the door, but jumped when it burst open and her mother stormed in.
“Your father is sending everyone home,” she snapped.
“What? He was supposed to be waiting in his bus.” Emma raced out of the workshop with Nightshade.
Sure enough, the remaining people were streaming outside.
“Dad.” Emma hurried over to him. “What the hell are you doing?”
“It’s Sunday,” he said. “They go home and stay there. Everyone has a tracked phone.” His eyes narrowed at the few remaining Hernandez family members. “They should leave too. If you need to talk, you know where to find them.”
“Sir.” Asher Hayes approached Richard. “Shall I take the Lamborghini back to your garage?”
Richard nodded. “Drive carefully.”
Asher left with the rest of the men.
Emma stared in total disbelief. “These people need to stay for their interviews.” She couldn’t understand why her father was letting them go. Any one of them could’ve been Sophie’s killer.
“You can still interrogate them,” Richard said wearily. “But not here.” He eyed his ex-wife, then pointed at Jacob. “We’ll take him with us and get to the bottom of what happened.”
“You will not.” Maria folded her arms.
“My fiancée died in your warehouse, and we can now assume her murder is linked to the stolen casket. We find the robber, and we find Sophie’s killer.” Richard advanced on Maria. “It is my right to get involved.”
“Your right?” Maria let out a mocking laugh. “As you keep pointing out, Richard, all this happened here. There is a killer on the loose with access to this facility. I have just as much right to find out how they bypassed my security.”
“They got in because he let them in.” Richard glared at Jacob.
Emma couldn’t argue with that, and she decided not to tell her father right away about the text messages between Sophie and Jacob.
“We need to interview our resident guard first,” Nightshade said, as if reading Emma’s mind. “Let us do what we came here to do.”
Richard stared for a few seconds, then threw his hands up. “Fine. But when you’re finished, you deliver him to me. Understood?”
Nightshade glided over to Jacob and indicated the middle door. “Would you mind waiting in there? I feel you’d be more comfortable.”
And safe. Emma eyed her father.
After a quick glance at Maria, Jacob did as he was told.
Mac and Neil stood guard outside.
Then Richard spotted Raul with Sophie’s wrapped body in his arms, and his face screwed up in anguish.
“Dad, it’s okay,” Emma said. “The plan is to lay Sophie in the woods, remember? Where someone will find her.” She gave him a quick hug and whispered, “Love you.”
Richard stroked her hair. “Love you too.”
Emma released him. “Back soon.” She walked toward the door, Raul and Francesca following her.
As she stepped into the brisk winter air, Emma zipped up her hoodie and prayed the day didn’t get any worse.
Raul drove Emma and Francesca away from the warehouse, with Sophie’s body propped up on the back seat next to Francesca. Fifteen minutes later, they pulled into a lay-by next to Nightshade’s designated woods.
They climbed
out, and after a quick look around to make sure they weren’t being watched, Raul lifted Sophie’s body from the car.
Emma wanted to be the one to carry Sophie because she knew her father would appreciate it, but Sophie’s body was far too heavy for her, so Emma led the way through the trees, with Francesca bringing up the rear.
The silence was broken only by their soft footfalls in the snow, the occasional snap of a twig, and the low rumble of distant traffic.
They stepped into a clearing sheltered by the giant canopy of an oak tree, its thick, curved trunk declaring it hundreds of years old.
Emma indicated for Raul to set Sophie down at the base of the tree. As he did so, she took Sophie’s head in her hands and rested it on one of the roots. Raul backed away, but Emma remained kneeling, head bowed, as she offered a silent prayer.
Raul and Francesca kept their distance, heads also bowed, and hands clasped before them.
When Emma opened her eyes, a robin landed on a tree stump at the edge of the clearing, its bright red breast on display. “Watch over her,” she whispered, then straightened up and backed away, careful not to frighten the bird. Emma took one last look around the clearing, then left.
They traipsed through the snow, following their tracks back to the car.
Who will find Sophie? Emma thought. A dog walker? A hiker? I hope it’s not a kid. In regards to mental scars, Emma was an expert. She had plenty, no thanks to her family, and wouldn’t have wished a single one of them on anyone else.
14
By the time Emma, Raul and Francesca returned to the farm warehouse, the majority of people from both families had left, including the donut eaters. Now only Maria, Richard, Dalton, Jacob, Mac, Neil and Nash, one of the warehouse’s day-shift guards, remained.
Emma’s father no longer appeared angry. He looked devastated, drawn, morose. As though someone had snatched his entire world away. And so they had.
Yet another wave of grief washed over Emma too, both for his loss and her own. “Dad, seriously, please go and wait in your bus.”
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