The Dark Glamour (666 Park Avenue 2)

of my business what it is,
she reproached herself sternly. She closed the box with a snap. ‘Thank you,’ she began, unsure what to say next.
‘I had no idea what was in here, and now I don’t think I should be taking it’ doesn’t really have a great ring to it.
    ‘Of course; I’m thrilled to be able to help Mr Chase and his family. And I’m sure that item is sentimental for you as well, since he told me it belonged to—’ McDeary stopped midsentence, his small eyes narrowing to slits. ‘Excuse me. You
did
say that you are Mr Chase’s younger sister, yes?’
    I
didn’t
say younger,
Jane’s mind hissed. Not that it was a huge leap: Malcolm was eight years older than her, and anyone as ingratiating as McDeary had to know that it was always good policy to assume women were young. But his eyes were riveted on her in a new and unpleasant way, and Jane’s skin crawled a little. The still, dead air of the safe room prickled at her skin with a new sort of static charge.
    Jane fought her panic: the secure room of a secure building was a terrible place to freak out and blow her cover for good. She bit the inside of her lip so hard that she tasted salt, forcing herself to meet McDeary’s eyes and smile at him. It was the very same smile she had turned towards Lynne countless times during the horrible, dangerous month after she’d learned that Lynne was a totally evil witch; it fit like her favourite pair of jeans. ‘Yes. And I’ll be sure to tell him how
thorough
you’ve been in explaining all of this to me.’
    She saw doubt flicker over McDeary’s face, and knew he was wondering if he might have somehow been indiscreet. She felt bad for making him worry, but she had no choice but to press her advantage. She shoved the little blue box into her straw purse, bundled the larger black case back into her arms, and turned resolutely for the door. ‘It’s to the left and then the third door, yes?’
    ‘I’d be happy to escort you, of course,’ McDeary offered politely.
    ‘That won’t be necessary,’ she told him frostily, doing her very best impression of Lynne Doran’s effortlessly commanding voice. McDeary snapped to attention, his right arm twitching in an almost-salute.
    Thank God he’s used to being bossed around,
she sighed as her kitten-heeled feet clicked out of the safe room.
And that I’ve learned how to do it.
As she strode purposefully out of the building, not even the two armed guards hulked at either side of the front door could stop her from smiling at the irony of Lynne having taught her such a useful skill.

Three
    ‘N OW IT ’ S A
little
bigger than we’d discussed, but I simply can’t not show it to you.’ Jane’s new real-estate agent giggled, shoving her ample hip against the apartment door.
    ‘Ooh,’ Jane breathed, taking in the wall of windows that made the living room glow like a piece of amber. The floor was lined with close-fitting hardwood planks, which had been polished to a uniformly pale-gold glow, and the room was pleasantly asymmetrical. The walls were a creamy white that made the high ceilings look even higher, and the scattering of furniture was made exclusively of glass, nubby white fabric, and pale, bone-like sticks of driftwood. Spare, minimalistic prints on the walls added unexpected touches of vivid purple ink to the room’s palette, echoed by a cozy-looking blanket folded neatly on the couch.
    Jane spied a kitchen, off to her left, full of gleaming appliances. It was a bit narrow to her eye, especially after the Dorans’ huge green-marbled one, but there was room for a thin-legged table and more than enough room for a person to cook – especially one who cooked as infrequently as she did. A long, narrow hallway ran out from the angled right-hand wall, which, she assumed, led to the bedroom. Although she was sure that she should probably play it cool, she couldn’t help returning the agent’s broad, eager smile.
    The perfectly frosted-and-set woman had been openly skeptical when Jane had arrived in her office in her thrift store-heavy ensemble asking about Manhattan properties. But when Jane, who had come straight from the bank with her helpful case of money, named what she felt would be a reasonable monthly sum for a living space that would drive every last vestige of the Rivington from her mind, the agent had become a
lot
friendlier. Apparently concluding that Jane was a trust-fund baby in the midst of a totally fake ‘rebellion’, or possibly