Chapter 17: Lake House

The detective played the recording for me in his quiet office.

It was Preston's voice, flat and tired.

"Put it in her bag at the dock. Then have the police at the Bridgeport door by ten."

A pause on the tape, and a second order.

"And someone goes through the old woman's flat tonight."

"The tin is the only thing that matters."

The prosecutor would have it by Monday. The head of security had his deal.

I walked out of the station into a soft gray morning, and Yvonne's message was waiting.

The lake house. Tomorrow at ten. Your room is as you left it. Come alone, and take whatever you want.

I stood on the steps and read it four times.

"You don't have to go," Anson said.

"I know."

"Do you want me there?"

"I want you at the gate," I said, "where she can see the car."

He nodded. "I'll be the bored man at the gate."

The Sedgwick lake house sat in the trees above the pond I remembered from the age of five.

It was white clapboard with a porch swing, and the swing was still on its chains.

My body knew the front steps before I did. The third one creaked.

Yvonne opened the door in jeans and a cardigan, with her hair down.

"You came," she said.

"I came for the room."

"Of course." She stepped back. "It's at the top of the stairs."

I climbed alone.

The door was painted pale yellow, and a brass horseshoe still hung above the frame.

I opened it, and the smell came out first, lavender polish and old cotton.

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