t took a moment for my eyes to adjust.

I stood at the end of a narrow service hall. Shelves and storage closets lined both sides.

I hurried forward, ears on high alert. No Claybourne would use this corridor, but their servants would. Explaining my presence would be tricky, to say the least.

The passage ran thirty feet, turned right, then ended at a four-foot-high entryway.

Feeling like Alice, I cracked the tiny door and peered out. Before me lay the famous entrance hall.

Sunlight glinted off the white marble floor, and prismed from the crystal chandeliers hanging twenty feet up. Gold gilt tables lined the walls, holding statues, vases, and sculptures, each probably worth more than Kit’s portfolio. The open space was enough to accommodate a family of Wookiees.

To my left loomed the front doors, gigantic oak behemoths that could survive a missile strike. To my right the white marble shot the center of the house like a four-lane highway.

I closed the undersized door behind me. It sealed with a click, blending seamlessly into the wall. I couldn’t tell how it opened.

According to the website, the main staircase stood at the far end of the entrance hall. To reach the second floor, I first had to navigate the marble interstate.!!!Here goes nothing.

I crept forward, passing a formal dining room, a drawing room, and an observatory containing a Steinway grand piano. The walls were hung with portraits of dead Claybournes, each looking more dour than the next.

My heart hammered and my eyes never stopped moving. This was definitely the danger zone.

The hall ended in a circular foyer topped by a magnificent stained glass dome hanging seventy feet above me. Rainbow colors danced the marble. Murals adorned the walls, bordered by painted frescoes and carved molding. The room looked like something out of the Vatican. For a moment I gaped like a tourist.

An eight-foot statute stood centered beneath the dome. Milton Claybourne, the manor’s architect. Milton frowned, face bandaged, musket in hand.

“You’re a fun one,” I whispered. “Modest, too.”

At the far end of the hall, a Versailles-sized staircase swept upward between polished wood banisters. I scurried to it.

The second-floor corridor ran parallel to the hall below. Doors lined both sides.

The passage was deep night compared to the bright daytime below. Mahogany-paneled walls. No windows. Dim lights, spaced far apart. Shadows hid the corners and lay thick on the dark red carpet.

My target was specific. Hollis Claybourne’s private study. My instincts told me it was up there somewhere.

A door opened somewhere down the hallway.

I scrambled, heart banging, frantic for cover.

The first place I tried was a linen closet. No room to hide.

The unseen door closed.

I yanked a second knob.

Creak!

The hinges sounded like a scream in the stillness.

I barreled inside and shut the door. Froze. Shaking hands covered my mouth.

I heard movement in the hall. The clank of china. Then, far off, another door opening, closing.

Air exploded from my chest. Close. Too close.

I turned to examine my sanctuary. Relief turned to alarm. Then excitement.

I was standing in Chance’s bedroom.

No doubt about it. The walls were covered with pictures. Chance in London, Paris, Venice. Chance suited up for baseball, tennis, golf. Hannah and Chance on a blanket at the beach.

A massive bookcase held trophies and memorabilia. A framed picture enjoyed pride-of-place on the dresser. Hannah, in a white dress, holding a single rose. It looked like a gift. She looked stunning.

Blech.

I peeked in the closet. Bolton Prep uniforms hung from a jumble of mismatched hangers. Italian leather shoes lay heaped on the floor. Expensive silk ties sat balled on a built-in shelf.

“Chance,” I whispered. “Quite the slob. Surprise, surprise.”

Next, I poked through the books. Mostly nonfiction.

I stayed out of the dresser. Even I have limits. And if the door swung open, the last thing I wanted to be caught holding was Chance Claybourne’s underpants.

Finally, I arrived at the desk. Disconnected cords awaited the return of a laptop. Papers and books lay haphazardly tossed. A printer sat next to a scanner, neither plugged in. A Citadel mug held pens and highlighters.

A manila envelope caught my eye. Originally sealed with red tape, one end was sliced open. I noted a logo with the acronym SLED.

South Carolina Law Enforcement Division.

The fingerprint report.

I pulled a single sheet from the envelope. A handwritten note was clipped to the front. It read: “Here’s the info. You owe me! See you on the links, Chip.”

I frowned. Why hadn’t Chance given me the actual report? Was he holding back?

Relax. He’d probably promised not to let it out of his possession. And he didn’t want me chasing a dangerous crook like Newman. It’s not surprising he didn’t share the hard copy.

Curious, I scanned. Saw a photocopy of the fingerprint I’d lifted from the microfilm reader. Next to it was a mug shot.

I almost dropped the paper in shock.

That face! I knew it. The buzz-cut hair. The scarred jawline.

I read every word twice.

The report didn’t identify any James Newman. He wasn’t mentioned anywhere in the document. The print belonged to someone else.

Someone I’d met once before.

Tony Baravetto. Personal chauffeur to Chance Claybourne. The man who drove me home the night of the disastrous cotillion.

My mind raced. What did this mean?

But I knew.

Chance lied to me.

One by one, links connected.

Baravetto followed us to the library.

Baravetto learned that we knew about Katherine Heaton.

Baravetto worked for Chance Claybourne, son of Hollis Claybourne, our prime suspect in Katherine Heaton’s murder.

Then, one awful, inescapable connection.

Chance Claybourne might be trying to kill me.