The Frame-Up (The Golden Arrow #1)(51)

“Are you coming?” Matteo’s voice comes from the staircase in the foyer.

I realize I’ve been staring around the room and have completely missed all of Matteo’s conversation with the butler.

“Oh, um, yes, of course.”

Matteo turns to follow the butler up a curving staircase—quiet, with a worn and soft red velvety carpet runner. I make my way up the stairs behind him, taking in the house. This is the perfect superhero lair. Comfortable. Impressive. Homey. Huge enough to hide a batcave in the second living room. Heck, Casey Junior even has an Alfred.

“I know what you’re doing,” a voice comes from behind me, and I jump about a mile in the air, my mind going directly to ghosts, goblins, and the specter of Casey Senior’s murdered corpse. Instead, it’s the all-too-real, unpleasantly corporeal Detective Rideout.

“Climbing the stairs? You must have graduated top of your class.”

“No, I know.” His hand grabs mine on the railing, and the touch sends creepy crawlies straight to my soul. I yank my hand away and turn to face Rideout, careful to stay a full step above him and his impishly smirking face.

“Know what?”

“I’m not stupid. First you happen to meet Kildaire in the coffee shop. Then you happen to see those white rabbits that no one else saw. Then you happen to just have these journal pages on you, and your best friend is the key to finding the murderer. Kildaire may be blinded by your”—his eyes wander down to my chest, then back to my face—“finer assets, but I’m not fooled.”

This man must have come from Mordor, and I wish he’d just go back to Mount Doom and the fires that birthed him. I turn my back to him and start up the stairs again. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You’re the Golden Arrow, and I will prove it. I don’t know what you’re doing messing with the case, but I’m going to figure it out.”

I whip around so fast, I almost lose my balance. “What? Are you insane? I’m helping with this investigation. I’m the only reason you’ve figured anything out. Without me, you guys would have no idea.”

Rideout shrugs and mounts the stairs with a relaxed manner that just sets all my creep monitors off. “Our profiler gave me the report today. He thinks it could be a woman we’re chasing, not a man; the original thugs were drugged, not beaten . . . a woman’s tactic. Intelligent, educated, well steeped in geek culture, and with a way to keep tabs on the police investigation to avoid being caught. Sound like anyone you know?”

I decide on bluffing outwardly. “You’re barking up the wrong tree, Watson.” But, inwardly, I’m panicking a little. It does sound like me. Could the Golden Arrow be trying to frame me for all of this?

Rideout’s mouth presses into a line. “I’m watching you.”

I let him get far enough ahead of me that I have the landing all to myself. It’s back to quiet and comfortable, though I’m still shaken. If Rideout isn’t just being an ass, if he really thinks I am the Golden Arrow . . . well, I could be in real trouble.

At the head of the stairs, I pause. I could have sworn Matteo and Rideout went to the right, but I hear a noise to my left. The house seems to pull at me, so I wander down the worn path in the deeply padded wine-colored carpet to the set of large double wood doors that takes up the entire left end of the hall. Casey Senior’s study entrance is no less impressive than the house itself.

Matteo and Rideout are on their mission; I can already hear them knocking around in the study. I didn’t think I’d gotten that far behind them, but then again . . . this house kind of sucks me in with its quiet and creative energy. I can feel the stories here, picture Casey Senior plotting and sketching, drawing on the ethereal ideas floating in the air. Something about the atmosphere in this house speaks to my writer’s soul. I feel a bit like I’ve crossed into a fairy ring—one hundred years could have passed in a day, for all I know.

I pad up to the door and push down the brass lever. It’s hard to open against the thick carpet, and I push my body weight against it. The hinges squeak slightly, and I pause, realizing I didn’t hear that squeak when Detective Rideout and Matteo went in. Maybe the second door is more oiled or something. From inside the room, the noises stop.

I press again, and the door moves forward under my weight, swinging into the room . . . where I come face-to-cape with a figure who is not Detective Rideout or Matteo.

The yell that erupts from me is half scream, half war cry. For a brief instant, I think maybe I’ve interrupted a servant dressed in an odd uniform. But this figure is dressed all in black, wearing a mask, and a large golden arrow shines across the chest of the person’s spandex suit.

I stumble backward at the same time the figure whirls around. I fall back, hitting my head on the wooden door, and land in the hallway. I scramble to my feet, but by the time I make it back into the study, Matteo hot on my heels, I glimpse only the edge of a cape as the person jumps straight out a second-story window. No hesitation.

“Matteo, it’s him!”

“What? MG, are you okay?” Matteo’s hands are on my shoulders, probably trying to see if I’m hurt.

There’s no time to examine the splitting headache already developing from my fall. “Matteo, he’s here!”

“He who?”

I’m frantic at this point, pushing Matteo’s hand from my neck so I can get to the window. “The Golden Arrow. The Golden Arrow was right here in this room when I came in. And he just jumped through the window. He’s out there, Matteo!”