“Of course,” he replied, as if there had never been any doubt of that.
Ian opened the dining room door to the Great Hall for her a moment later. Sunlight flooded into her eyes, temporarily blinding her and only adding to the surreal sensation plaguing her. She realized the sun streamed in from the open front door. Police personnel stood around the hall, a couple of them talking intently into their cell phones. Through the open door, she saw several cars parked in the circular driveway and heard the distant squawk and mechanical voices from police radios.
She started to walk toward the door where she thought James’s office was, but Ian halted her with his hold on her hand. He pulled her over to the shadowed edge of the hall.
“Francesca, there’s something you should know first if you do plan to go in there,” he said.
“Yes?”
“Gerard shot him. The intruder came upon Gerard unexpectedly while he was working in Grandfather’s office. The man drew a gun on Gerard. Grandfather keeps a gun in his desk, where Gerard was working. It’s usually not loaded. According to Gerard, he thought to load it when the press conference got started. It seems he was spooked by what happened yesterday, and acted on impulse. Rightfully so, it seems. If he hadn’t thought to load the gun, he’d be the one lying in there dead right now instead of the man. And who knows what would have happened if the intruder ever found you.”
“Oh my God,” Francesca mumbled, icy shivers clawing at her back and shoulders. “Are you sure Gerard is all right?”
“Physically, yes. But he’s in a state of shock. The police are still questioning him.” She saw doubt in his blue eyes as he studied her face. “Are you certain you want to go in there?”
She nodded, inhaling slowly to steady herself. “Yes. I’d like to get this ugliness over with and in the past.”
He didn’t look thrilled about her decision, but he led her to his grandfather’s study nevertheless, staying close by her side.
Chapter Thirteen
Everybody stayed up late that night, the fading adrenaline in their blood making sleep difficult. Anne seemed especially concerned about Gerard, who was quiet and subdued by the time the police eventually concluded their investigation that evening, leaving two men behind to keep watch at Belford. For the second night in a row, they sat down to dinner without dressing, everyone rehashing the day’s events. Ian was waiting for a call from Markov that might shed light on the intruder’s identity and possible motive.
By the time they gathered in the sitting room after dinner, Anne seemed to be of the opinion that they’d discussed the alarming events of the day sufficiently. Francesca guessed from her worried glances at Gerard and her subtle altering of the topic of conversation that she worried her nephew had experienced quite enough for the time being. Francesca couldn’t have agreed more. The image of that man’s lifeless face covered in a shocking amount of blood kept flashing before her mind’s eye. That was a real hole in his head and real blood. Her consciousness couldn’t quite grasp it, even yet. She couldn’t begin to imagine what Gerard was experiencing.
Something about the jarring events of the day seemed to melt away her reserve about the family knowing she and Ian were involved again. All afternoon and evening, he’d been by her side, her hand in his or his arm around her. It’d seemed entirely natural to Francesca, so much so that she didn’t even think about it until that evening at around eleven when Ian’s phone began to ring. She’d been sitting in the circle of his arm on one of the couches in the sitting room, her cheek resting on his chest, lulled by the comfort of his steady heartbeat and the warmth of the fire. He dug into his pocket and checked his phone.
“I’m going to take this,” he said gruffly, kissing her on the temple before he stood. Everyone’s gaze seemed to follow him out of the room as he stepped out into the Great Hall to take the call. A strained silence ensued while they waited for him to return, only broken by Anne asking if anyone wanted anything else to drink.
“That was Markov,” Ian said, stating what they all had suspected. “They’ve discovered the identity of the man,” he said, his gaze on Gerard. “His name is Anton Brodsik. He has a record with the Chicago area police that goes back almost thirty years—assault, minor drug convictions, robbery. He’s suspected of having mob connections. He had a passport on him with a fake name.”
“Is there any clue as to his motive?” Gerard asked, sitting forward in his chair.
“Not anything concrete. But for the past ten years or so, Brodsik has been associated in his crimes a lot with a man named Shell Stern. They were both arrested in a high-profile case three years ago—an attempted kidnapping of a sixteen-year-old boy in Winnetka, Illinois.” Ian glanced at Francesca. “The police didn’t have enough evidence to prosecute, though. No one was ever convicted for the crime. The boy was Sheridan Henes’s son.”
“Henes? The oil company heir?” James asked.
Ian nodded. “The FBI couldn’t convincingly link the two to the case, but there was a strong suspicion against Stern and Brodsik. So they have been connected to kidnapping in the past. And they did try to take Francesca,” Ian said, his eyes gleaming in the firelight as he looked at Francesca.
An involuntary shiver went through her. Anne inhaled raggedly.
“What of this other man, Stern?” James asked worriedly.
“They’ve found him. He’s dead, too,” Ian said.
“What?” Elise and Anne exclaimed at once.