Page 41 of Unmasking the Diamond
“It has come in rather handy in my profession,” he said with deliberate nonchalance.
“As an editor?”
He chuckled. “Yes. Not everyone is eager to speak with me. After you, Charlotte.”
She stepped inside—and froze.
Luca leaned over her shoulder. The office was barren, save for a single desk and two chairs in the center. No papers, no ledgers, no trace of occupation.
“Do we have the right address?” she asked.
He nodded. “This is listed as Mr. Griffin’s office, tied to the Ravenhurst Trading Company.”
“But no one is here…”
“Because there never was,” Luca said grimly, leaning against the desk. “I knew it. The Ravenhurst Trading Company is in name only. A shell to keep its true owner hidden.”
“Why?”
“Because whoever is behind it has something to conceal. Nefarious intentions, most likely.”
Her brows arched. “What do we do now?”
“We keep digging,” he said. “The Ravenhurst Trading Company owns The Chelmsford Asylum. Until we discover the owner, we don’t stop.”
“Maybe there is a clue here?”
He shook his head. “Doubtful. No one ever worked in this room.”
She sighed, gazing around. “This feels impossible.”
“Don’t tell me you are already ready to quit,” he said, surprised.
Her chin lifted, defiant. “I didn’t say that. I happen to specialize in the impossible.”
Luca’s tension eased into reluctant admiration. “Is that so?”
“We may be facing an endless uphill climb, but I brought the right shoes for it,” she quipped. “Shall we question the other tenants?”
“I doubt they saw anything.”
“Don’t you think it’s worth a try?”
He waved a hand. “By all means. But I believe it a waste of time.”
That stubborn tilt of her chin warned him she would not be swayed. She brushed past him and knocked on the next door.
“Enter,” a voice boomed.
Charlotte slipped inside, her tone soft and plaintive. “Pardon me, sir, I am searching for the gentleman in office 1E. Mr. Griffin is—was—my father’s solicitor.”
Luca lingered in the hall, watching through the crack. She played her part brilliantly, her voice trembling with manufactured grief. The lanky clerk across the desk all but melted under her gaze.
At last, the man revealed, “The man you seek will come to collect his mail tomorrow, at noon,” he began. “If you would like?—"
“Thank you, sir. You have been most helpful,” she gushed, cutting off whatever offer he began to make.
Charlotte emerged moments later, closing the door firmly behind her, triumph gleaming in her eyes. “Did you hear that?”
