A Margin of Lust (The Seven Deadly Sins #1)(67)

After an eternity of sloping descent, the hallway came to a dead end. A wooden door, charcoal-gray with age, blocked their path. Mo reached forward, pushed, and the door creaked open. The smell of mold and rotting wood sighed from the space like sour breath. Nausea rolled in Gwen's stomach.

"The agent who showed me the house the first time didn't want to come down here either," he said.

He flipped on another amber lamp and pulled Gwen inside. Dusty shelves lined three walls of a room about twenty feet by twenty feet. They were piled high with bottles, round bottoms glinting through a coating of grime.

"It's a treasure chest." His eyes opened wide, their whites jaundiced in the yellow lamplight. "Some of these wines have been out of circulation for years. There's a 1940 Romanee-Conti Domaine de la Romanee-Conti Grand Cru, a Chateau Lafite Rothschild, even an early bottle of Screaming Eagle Cabernet from Napa Valley. It's one of the most amazing collections I've ever seen."

Gwen stared around her at the dirt and decay. "Why aren't they better cared for?" His awe was infectious.

"This place was my grandfather's vacation home for many years. He was the wine connoisseur. His talent obviously skipped a generation. I don't think my father knew what he had."

"Why didn't you tell him?"

Mo's laugh was low and angry. "I only saw him once before his death. We didn't have a... a relationship to speak of." His right hand balled into a fist. Gwen flinched, preparing herself for a blow.

"Because of her." The hand released and clenched three times in rapid succession. "He only cared about her."

The hand moved to his head as if it had a will of its own and fingered a tuft of hair. "My mother wasn't good enough for him. I understand that. I was different, but he never gave me a chance."

Gwen watched in morbid fascination as the hand crawled across Mo's head playing with one lock here, experimentally tugging on another there.

"His wife died eight years ago. I tried to call him then. Tell him I was sorry for his loss. He hung up on me." He addressed his words to the shelves of wine, seeming to forget Gwen presence.

She looked around for a way of escape. The room was bare except for an old table and chair and the walls of wine. There were no doors or windows other than the door they'd entered by.

"I thought maybe if my mother was out of the picture, he would be more receptive to a reunion. Maybe he'd been avoiding me, because he didn't want the complication of having her in his life." He looked at Gwen. "She was difficult."

His fingers stopped traveling and wound themselves into a thick strand of hair.

"So I got rid of her." He gave a quick yank, and his hand came away with the lock. It hung from his fingers like a dead thing. "It didn't change anything. Fiona was the problem, not my mother."

He put the hair into his mouth. He sucked on it and gazed at the wine with a thoughtful expression. He stood this way for so long, Gwen wondered if he'd gone into a fugue state.

She shrank away from him, backing toward the open door—an inch at a time. If she could only make it into the hall before he came to himself. Her plan was sketchy. Not really a plan, more an idea.

She would shut the door, and wedge something—she didn't know what—against it. If she could barricade him in the wine cellar, she would run upstairs, into the world of light and sound and people, and she would find help.

It was as if his hand read her mind. He never took his eyes from the wall, but the hand shot out and grabbed her wrist before she'd gone two feet. He looked at her with eyebrows raised as if he was as surprised as she was by it. The hair dangled from his lower lip like a limp cigarette.

"But the good news is," he said with abrupt cheerfulness, "I don't think anyone knows this treasure trove is here except me, and now you. Based on the coating of dust, no one’s been in here for years."

"Why not take it then? I could help you. We could carry it out to the car right now." Gwen tried to keep the desperation out of her voice.

"But I want a family reunion." He flashed a smile. "And this is where you come in. You can get her here. She'll come for you."

Gwen nodded, pushing away her fear and disappointment. "Should we go up and call now?" she asked, making her voice bright.

"No." Mo pulled her toward the chair. "Not now. Tonight. I have to pour wine for a wedding shower this afternoon. It's a big event. I'll be busy all day."

"You're not going to leave me here?" Gwen's voice grew shrill. The thought of staying in this place with the weight of the house bearing down, smothering and suffocating, terrified her.

"You'll be fine." Mo pulled a roll of duct tape from a shelf.

Gwen ran for the doorway again, but Mo backhanded her with such force flecks of light flashed behind her eyes. She staggered into arms that closed around her like a vise. Out came the blade. She felt its pinch in her neck close to her pulsing carotid artery.

"Let's try this again," he said.

She allowed herself to be pushed into the chair and wrapped with duct tape. Tears coursed down her cheeks.





CHAPTER FORTY-NINE


Agatha opened the door of 278 Sailor's Haven Drive. She'd come to clean every Saturday, come rain or shine, for the past fifteen years. She put her purse on the small table in the entryway and scowled. Someone had made a mess on her stairs, and it sure looked like that someone done it on purpose. Something dirty dotted every single riser.