Chapter 523
Chapter 523:
She grabbed her cup and walked toward the door. As she passed Vargo, she saw him staring at Maria with suspicion.
“Come on, Vargo,” Skye said. “Let’s go count the silverware p>
Back in her room, Skye’s mind raced.
The attic. A wife who wasn’t dead. A secret called “the Heart p>
It sounded like a gothic novel, but in Vegas, gothic novels were usually documentaries.
If Elena Moretti was alive, and if she hated Giovanni, she could be the key. She could know where the encrypted drive—the one Lucian was tearing the house apart to find—was hidden.
Skye looked out the window. The sky was turning a bruised purple. Storm clouds were gathering over the mountains. A summer monsoon.
Perfect.
Thunder would cover the sound of footsteps. Lightning would provide intermittent light. She needed to get to the attic.
She waited. The hours dragged by. Lunch was a silent affair. Dinner was served in her room.
By ten p.m., the storm broke. Rain lashed against the glass in sheets. Thunder rattled the windowpanes.
Skye dressed in black leggings and a tight black sweater she had found in the closet. She slipped a small flashlight—stolen from a utility drawer—into her sleeve.
She opened her door.
The hallway was empty. Vargo was stationed at the bottom of the stairs, guarding the main exit. He wouldn’t expect her to go up.
Skye moved. She bypassed the main staircase and found the narrow servants’ stairs behind a tapestry.
The air grew hotter as she climbed. The smell of dust and old paper filled her nose.
She reached the top landing. A heavy iron door blocked the way. It was locked with a simple padlock.
Skye pulled a hairpin from her messy bun. She wasn’t a master thief, but she had learned a few things from Alistair.
𝘈𝗹𝘭 ո𝗼𝗏𝗲𝘭𝗌 𝖿r𝘦𝖾 on 𝘣e.𝘤𝗼𝘮
She worked the pin into the lock.
Click.
The lock popped open.
She pushed the door. It groaned on rusted hinges. Skye stepped into the darkness.
The attic smelled of despair.
It was a suffocating blend of mildew, stale urine, and medicinal camphor. The rain hammered on the roof directly overhead, a deafening drumroll that vibrated in Skye’s teeth. She clicked on her flashlight, keeping the beam low.
The space was cluttered with the debris of a lifetime: mannequins, stacks of old newspapers, covered furniture that looked like sleeping ghosts.
In the center of the room, illuminated by a sudden flash of lightning through a small, barred window, was a wheelchair.
A figure sat in it.
Skye’s breath caught in her throat.
The figure wasn’t moving. Long, stringy gray hair hung down over the back of the chair. The woman was facing away from Skye, toward a blank wall.
Skye took a step forward. The floorboard creaked.