In For the Kill (McClouds & Friends #11)(98)

Now was not the time for goddamn hurt feelings.

It was so hard to think clearly when she had such a complicated emotional agenda. She was behaving as if by solving this mystery, she could somehow regain that intimacy with Mama that had been stolen from her. She could explain, justify what had happened.

She’d so much rather see Mama as a heroic, self-sacrificing crusader against evil rather than just a pampered mistress. A suicidal failure who didn’t care enough to live, even for her daughter’s sake.

There might be nothing here at all but her own hopeful fantasies.

She looked around at the trees. Mama had mentioned the “tree of life,” but there were only palms, orange, and lemon trees here. Atlas stared at the ground, a look of grim endurance on his face. The burden of the world that had been loaded on his back had broken away and been lost hundreds of years ago, but he got no relief. She could see it in the constant, ceaseless effort in his face, in the desperate bulge of muscles in his back. His burden had been lifted, but he hadn’t even noticed. He carried on as if it were still there. It was his whole identity.

That weight would always crush him. No relief was possible.

She tore her gaze away. Follow the tree of life. How did one follow a tree? Trees were rooted. By definition, they did not move. She rubbed her face. Was surprised to find it wet. She wiped away mascara sludge. What had possessed her to wear a white dress? It was just asking for trouble. Makeup, coffee, who knew what else. Danger at every turn.

When she blinked the tears away, the patterned tiles beneath her feet swam into focus. The design looked like a flowchart, or a root system, stylized and intricate. Her eyes followed them up. The lines coalesced into the bole of a tree; a serpent twisted around it, forked red tongue darting.

She rose to her feet and followed it.

The tree trunk led straight up the path, then branched three ways. The left-hand branch led straight toward Atlas. The images were scenes from the book of Genesis. Some she recognized, some she did not. Adam and Eve were easy to identify, the fig leaves, the serpent, the apple, the angry angel with the flaming sword. The fountain gurgled faintly in her ear. She heard distant conversations, in other parts of the house. Birds chattered. Parakeets screeched. Bees hummed.

She stopped when she could see Atlas’s eyes. Look beneath. Look within, the letter had said. She looked down.

It took a while for the images to come into focus. The first tile was of two men on either side of an altar, one carrying a sheaf of grain, the other carrying a lamb. The next was a man with a sheaf of grain on his back, who appeared to be yelling at a pissed-off looking angel.

The third image was half-hidden, beneath dried vines and petals of what looked like honeysuckle. She nudged them aside with her foot.

The angry man from the last image was striking another man down with a sword. Blood pooled beneath the fallen man. The sword was red. The killer’s face was a mask of senseless rage.

Cain and Abel. It was The Sword of Cain. Her heart galloped.

She slid her foot from her sandal, touched the tile with her toe. It was loose. She pushed the tile as far in its groove as it would go, wedged her toe beneath, and pried it up. There was a cavity beneath it.

“Ah, there you are! Communing with your mother, Svetlana?”

She jerked her foot away, heart jumping up into her throat, and smiled as Hazlett walked toward her. He held two champagne flutes filled with pale, bubbling liquid. She nudged the tile back into place without looking at it and slipped her foot into her sandal. Her heart thundered. Oh, God, the guy’s timing sucked. So very badly.

Hazlett’s carefully shaped brows furrowed. “Did I startle you?”

“Oh, no. Just lost in my thoughts.” She tried to shimmy her foot back into her sandal. The last thing she wanted was to fuss with her shoe and pull his gaze down, drawing his attention to that loose tile.

But why the secrecy? Why was her heart pounding? Hazlett wouldn’t care if she found something connected to her mother. Renato would be over the moon with delight. She could just bend down right now and satisfy her curiosity. Why the hell not?

She just couldn’t. Her muscles had frozen, and her vocal apparatus, too. There might be nothing hidden under that tile. The place was hundreds of years old, after all. Probably half the tiles were loose.

But Mama had written her a cryptic letter about it. Things she had not confided to Renato. She might have nibbled pastries with him, and shared her body with him—but she had not shared this.

Sveti edged away from the tile without looking down, and took the glass. The sling-back strap was still trapped under her heel.

“Try some Prosecco,” Hazlett urged. “Are you feeling all right?”

She gulped the fizzy wine. “Sad,” she offered. “I’ll always regret not saying good-bye to her. It just doesn’t get any easier with time.”

Hazlett’s eyes went soft. He seized her hand. Fingers closed tight. His grip was forceful. Not more so than Sam’s, but it was an entirely different sensation, to have this man seek to impose his will on her physically. A man she did not know, or trust. She disliked it.

But her presence of mind was trashed from finding the tile. She took another swallow of Prosecco, for lack of anything intelligent to say.

Hazlett tucked her arm into the crook of his elbow. “Walk with me,” he urged. “I want to show you the chapel. There are frescoes some say were painted by Giotto himself.”