The hallway outside the library was lined with ancestors, generations of Espositos staring down from oil paintings with the judgment of the dead. I walked past them, the hem of my coat brushing the Persian runner, my mind already sorting through the variables of the coming day.
Sunlight was bleeding through the high windows now, illuminating the dust motes dancing in the air. It looked peaceful, and deceptive.
I pushed open the heavy oak door.
The library smelled of beeswax and old paper, a scent that usually grounded me, but today it just smelled like a trap.
She was standing by the window, the black cashmere sweater clinging to her frame, looking out at the drive that led to the gate.
She didn't turn when I entered, but I saw the minute tightening of her shoulders, the way her weight shifted ever so slightly to the balls of her feet. She was ready for a fight, or a flight.
