Chapter 4: The House

"Let it run," Denton said.

I stared at him over the tablet.

"Four million people think I'm a thief."

"Four million people think you're a woman who got caught," he said. "In a week they'll know better."

"A week is a long time."

"Not for what you're going to do with it."

He took the tablet from my hands and set it down.

Then he kissed my forehead, once.

"What do you want to do today?" he asked.

I thought about it.

My father's study was in the house on Astor Street, and Margot had changed the locks on it after the funeral.

I knew that from borrowed memory, the same way I knew where the stairs creaked.

"I want my father's things," I said. "His watch, his books, his chair. Whatever she hasn't sold."

"I'll come with you."

"No," I said. "I need to do the first part by myself."

He looked at me for a long moment.

"Take the car," he said. "Call me if you need me."

I nodded.

I pulled on the jeans a housekeeper had found for me.

Then I went down in the elevator with my chin up.

The house on Astor Street was a three-story brick townhouse with black shutters and a brass knocker shaped like a fox.

It was the only home the old Lizzie had ever had.

Two neighbors were standing on the sidewalk with their coffee, and they went silent as I came up the steps.

I did not knock.

I used the key in my pocket, and it didn't turn.

The lock had been changed.

I rang the bell, and I waited.

Margot opened the door herself.

She was wearing a cream silk robe and her pearls, and her auburn hair was sleek as a helmet.

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