Woman in Black by Eileen Goudge Page B

simply stared silently into space, pretending not to recognize her. It would have been almost a relief if for once someone had voiced what they were surely thinking: He got what he deserved. And so did you . It wasn’t just that she and Gordon had been found guilty in the court of public opinion; they made people like them nervous. They were a constant reminder of how swiftly one’s fortunes could turn. Weren’t they all just one catastrophe away from the brink?
    Getting out at the penthouse level, she paused at her door before inserting her key into the lock. Did it look as though she’d been crying? It wouldn’t do for these last precious hours with her husband to be spoiled by her weepy mood. She straightened her shoulders and took a deep, steadying breath before she unlocked the door and stepped inside.
    Their building, at Park Avenue and East 72nd, was one of the Upper East Side’s more venerable prewars and the penthouse its crown jewel. With views stretching on either side all the way to the East and Hudson Rivers, spacious rooms with twelve-foot ceilings, and a wraparound terrace, it had been the ideal stage for the numerous parties she and Gordon had thrown, most in an effort to further Gordon’s career. Only now, stripped of its decor, with what was left of its furnishings—the more valuable pieces having been sold—swaddled in quilted packing blankets and bubble wrap, the memory of those festive occasions, the front room alive with conversation and laughter, music and the clink of glasses, waiters gliding about with trays of artfully displayed canapés, was a distant one. She felt as if she were walking into a tomb.
    â€œGordon?” she called.
    There was no answer. That was odd. Where could he have gotten to? And where was Neal? He’d said he was on his way up, and that had to have been at least fifteen minutes ago.
    She felt a strange sense of foreboding. The parquet floor, with its rugs rolled up, echoed with her footsteps as she made her way through the vestibule and down the hall into the living room. There was something very wrong here. She could feel it in her bones.
    She found Neal huddled on the floor by the sofa, his knees tucked against his chest. He was staring blankly ahead, shivering uncontrollably, his face drained of all color.
    Lila gasped and sank into a crouch before him. That was when she noticed the smudges of blood on his sneakers and the faint but discernible trail of bloody footprints on the floor leading up to him. A wave of panic crested inside her. “Honey, what happened? Are you hurt?” She felt woozy at the thought, her heart banging lopsidedly in her chest, like a piece of machinery missing a cog.
    Neal wore a strange, unfocused look, the muscles in his face slack and his eyes staring sightlessly ahead. He appeared almost drugged. His lips were moving, but only a strangled croak emerged. At last he managed to unlatch his arms from around his knees and lift a trembling finger toward the arched entrance leading to the hallway beyond.
    Lila’s panic instantly congealed into a heavy, sinking dread. She could feel a pulse thumping in the pit of her stomach, and the world went a little gray as she rose shakily from her crouched position, already half knowing what she was going to find at the other end of the hallway.
    â€œGordon?” she called softly as she made her way down the hall.
    No answer.
    The door to Gordon’s study was cracked open. As she approached it, time seemed to slow to a standstill. She could see dust motes swirling lazily in the band of sunlight that angled across the polished floor where the Bokhara runner had been rolled up, and she became aware of violin music playing softly inside the study. Beethoven … or was it Brahms? Her husband’s love of classical music was a source of both wonderment and amusement to him. “Amazing, isn’t it? I grew up listening to Merle Haggard saw on the