I stepped into the doorway of the dimly lit study.
“He buried her,” I said cleanly.
Both of them whipped around.
Melanie was tied to a wooden chair, her cheeks streaked with tears, her hands bound behind her.
And there stood Lucas.
He wore a linen shirt, his sleeves rolled up, holding a stack of burned, charred paper over a metal trash can. The blue legal folder lay open on the desk beside a lighter.
For three seconds, nobody moved.
The shock on Lucas’s face was magnificent. The color drained from his skin, his smooth, effortless mask shattering into a thousand irrecoverable pieces.
“Anne?” he breathed, stumbling back a step. “How… how are you here?”
“Zurich is lovely this time of year, isn’t it?” I asked, taking a step forward.
His eyes darted frantically toward the window, then to his phone on the desk, then back to me. The master manipulator was finally running out of moves.
