Dark to Mortal Eyes by Eric Wilson Read Free Book Online

this momentous day and had stridden out to the car. Strapped herself into the Z3’s cockpit. Lifted her chin.
    And she actually did it, actually left!
    It’d been years since Kara had done such a thing; he could almost respect her for that.
    The brass frame sparked his ire anew. To prove his immunity to it, he flipped the photo back up beside the faucet and pondered the young lady’s face. Unfamiliar, yes, but he knew who this was. She had Kara’s chin, petite and strong, eyes the same shape, set wider and deeper. On her eyebrow, a silver hoop clung like a question mark that refused to go away.
    Josee Walker …
    Her likeness was supposed to twist some emotional knob, but that just wasn’t going to happen. As though to convince the man staring back at him in the mirror, he shook his head and combed through his wavy black hair.
    For crying out loud, Josee, I have questions too. You’re not the only one
.
    From the sunken shower enclosure, the sweet scent of Kara’s Shalimar lingeredin Marsh’s nostrils. He’d been hard on her, maybe too hard. Didn’t she see, though, the folly of traipsing back into the past? She was not only driving a wedge between them, she was gambling her daughter’s stability.
    Within the photo’s gaze, Marsh ran a triple-bladed razor over his stubble and swirled the residue down the drain. He slipped into gray slacks and Arin Mundazi loafers, buttoned his shirt, draped over his chest a silk J. Dunlary tie.
    Almost seven o’clock. Only minutes till his daily chess match.
    His tie fit the chess motif, with random white squares against a field of black.
    In his study he stood waiting at the window as a tangerine dawn squeezed over Addison Ridge. Below, in the brick-encircled parking area, Japanese maples swayed in the breeze. Within the hour the manor and vineyards would stir with activity; migratory grape pickers and machine operators would clock in; Rosamund, the Addisons’ lone live-in employee, would manage the daytime kitchen and custodial staff. At the moment, however, the estate lay subdued. Marsh was sure that, aside from Rosie downstairs, he was alone.
    Alone? Well, that was Kara’s choice, wasn’t it? Not his.
    He punched the intercom button. “Rosie, you there?”
    “Sir?”
    “Bring my breakfast up to the study. Buzz to get in.”
    “The usual?”
    After a string of capricious personnel, he had hired Rosamund Yeager for her European efficiency and attention to details. At seventy-six years old, beneath honey-tinted hair and powdered wrinkles, she remained unflagging, meticulous, attentive to his patterns. To keep her on her toes, he said, “Throw in an egg overeasy—salt, pepper, and a dash of paprika.”
    “I’ll bring it up myself, sir. And will your wife be joining you?”
    “She’s not here.”
    “Oh? Is she … keeping an appointment? Should I prepare her meal in advance?”
    “Appointment?” Marsh watched a repair truck pull up the drive. “Yeah, set something aside. Why not? Of course you know what she likes.”
    “I’ll see to it, Mr. Addison. You’re certain she’ll be back?”
    “She’ll be back.”
    Marsh hoped that Kara’s morning away would give her fresh perspective. She’d saunter in, sporting independence like some imitation fashion design, but experience assured him that she would return. That much he could count on.

    “She’s making her move.”
    “I’m all over it.” Beau jutted his chin, rolled his eyes like marbles in their sockets. “How do you chess masters say it? ‘Guard your queen’?”
    “A superfluous warning. A worthy player has no need for it.”
    “Was just a comment, Mr. Steele.”
    “Keep those eyes peeled. That’s your priority.”
    Beau folded his arms over the van’s steering wheel and studied Ridge Road. Nothing yet. The cold had constricted his hands into talons as they gripped the Motorola. He gnawed on the rubber antenna and wondered how Steele maintained his cool. With patience and a plan—those were