The driver didn't ask questions. He engaged the gears, and the vehicle slid soundlessly into the midnight fog drifting off the Pacific.
At 2:41 A.M., Marcus Hale’s armored Maybach pulled into the circular driveway of the Pacific Heights mansion.
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He was flushed with vintage champagne, his silk tuxedo tie untied around his neck, an eighteen-thousand-dollar catering invoice crumpled in his breast pocket, and a smudge of Vivian’s pale berry lipstick staining the crisp starched collar of his shirt.
The estate was pitch-black.
“Natalie?” he called out, pushing through the heavy double oak entrance doors:
“Natalie, the paramedics said you checked yourself out of the clinic! Where are you?!”
No answer.
Only the heavy, rhythmic ticking of the antique grandfather clock in the gallery.
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Marcus stepped toward the grand staircase, his leather shoe catching the edge of a dried, dark crimson droplet on the second step.
His breath hitched.
