I turned to him. “Which window opens?”

He flushed. “The farthest on the right, sir. But only from the inside. I know your father insisted on the full security package, but Mr. Cortez…”

“Wanted a personal escape route.”

The butler nodded. I knew there was only one reason he’d insist on an exit from this room, into which he could retreat, undisturbed, for hours. An escape route…to visit his mistress. Or I amended, as my gaze lit on a day bed, to sneak her in.

Mistresses were an expected part of a Cabal sorcerer’s life, as in any situation where a man marries for duty rather than for love. But a secret way out also gave Hector an alibi when he needed one—his family insistent he’d been within the whole time, never daring to check.

Carlos had arrived at almost precisely the time my father’s assassin had driven him into the panic room.

He’d entered and left without anyone verifying that he’d actually spoken to Hector. Then he’d made it clear that Hector was not to be disturbed. Establishing a nearly ironclad alibi.

I turned to the butler. “When is the last time anyone saw him?”

“I spoke to him when he got home, around eight. But the cook brought his dinner in at eight-thirty.”

I looked at the empty dishes on the desk.

“He calls when he wants them removed. If he’s busy, we have to wait until he leaves. When he comes in here—”

“—he doesn’t want to be disturbed.”

I walked toward the window. It seemed to be ajar.

“Sir?” The guard was on the other side of the desk, looking down.

I saw a leather loafer protruding. I hurried around the desk, and almost slipped in a slick puddle. A pool of blood. Hector lay on his back, blood soaking his shirt front.

I dropped beside him and checked his pulse. I found none.

“Bring Paige in please,” I said, as calmly as I could manage.

The butler started for the door, then I remembered another, more critical request.

“Do not let Emilio in. Stop him physically if you must.”

“Yes, sir.”

I crouched beside my brother’s body. My brother’s body…

My mind refused to process the thought. It was a trick. He’d faked his death—killed someone else and placed this impostor here, a man who looked like him, or a man under a glamour spell. Preposterous, of course, but it made more sense than the truth—that Hector Cortez, the ogre of my childhood, had been felled by something as ordinary as an assassin’s bullet.

My brother…

“I’m sorry.”

I looked up to see Paige. “Can you confirm…?”

“Yes, of course.”

As she knelt beside Hector, I took out my phone. There were steps that needed to be taken after the murder of a Cabal son, and I was not about to ask my father to take them. In fact, the first thing I did was insist that news of Hector’s death be kept from him until I was there to break it.

An investigation had to be launched and a cover-up begun. The police could not be called. His wife could not even suspect that they’d needed to be called, a situation made more difficult by where he’d died. She had to be kept out of this room until his body could be removed, and to do that, we’d have to keep news of his death a secret until it was too late for her to rush in. If that happened, our only recourse was to claim suicide, an explanation that would raise almost as many questions as murder. Heart failure or a stroke would be easier, if it could be managed.

One call set the wheels in motion. I explained the situation succinctly, then said, “Until I inform my father, all calls regarding this matter are to come to me, at this number.”

I expected some hesitation. But the chief of security agreed, and promised to keep me informed of all developments.

“Carlos,” Paige said, coming over to me. “I never would have believed it. Working with Hector, maybe.

But on his own? Something this complicated? Either we all seriously underestimated his intelligence, or this really was Hector’s work—and Carlos just got greedy.”

For a moment, I wondered what she was talking about. Then it hit me.

I sent one of the guards out to enlist the Cabal household staff to help tend to the family—and keep them out—then bring the butler to me.

“Did you admit Carlos earlier?” I asked the butler.

“Yes, sir.”

“And the exact time?”

“Close to what Mrs. Cortez said. He arrived at nine-forty-five and left shortly after ten.”

“And you’re certain it was Carlos?”

He didn’t take umbrage at the question. In our world, illusion and deceit are facts of life.

“I certainly believed it to be him, sir.”

“And you didn’t see Hector or admit anyone into this room after Carlos left?”

“No, sir.”

Hector could have admitted someone through the secret window after Carlos left—but one thing was clear.

We needed to find Carlos.

“What about William?” Paige said.

I hesitated. As much as I wanted to stop Carlos, I had another brother to think about—one who might need protecting. “William first. But before we go, I should…”

I cracked open the door and peeked out. The hall was empty, the staff having distracted the family or convinced them everything was fine. Should I find Emilio and tell him? He didn’t know me. Should a stranger be the one to bear such news?

The butler spoke before I could. “I’ll handle it, sir. Once Mr. Cortez is removed, I’ll tell the widow, then let her break it to the boys. Stroke, was it?”

“Yes.”

He nodded.

HOPE: UNWELCOME

“Have you spoken to your mother?” Karl asked as we walked to Cortez headquarters.

The question was so unexpected I could only gawk. “What?”

“Have you called your mother since you’ve been in Miami?”

I had the day I arrived, but since then had told myself she’d expect me to be busy with my story. Truth was, I’d been uncomfortable calling her while playing Faith Edmonds.

“Benicio can tempt you all he wants,” Karl said. “You have a long way to go before he stands any chance of winning you over.”

That’s what he’d meant by the question about my mother. Would I ever stop being surprised—and maybe a little discomfited—by how well Karl knew me?