Page 45 of An Immaculate Deception

“Do you live alone here?”

He stands between the foyer and the drawing room and does not look at me as he speaks. His gaze travels up to the second floor, almost like he already knows the answer. Almost like he knows about her.

I rummage in my vest pocket for a cigarette. No, later. If I drop the cigarette or if my fingers shake as I strike the match, my nerves will show.

“Yes,” I answer. I catch myself and guilt descends on me. What a horrible thing to write her off like that, as though she is dead.

As though she doesn’t exist.

But I don’t correct myself. Too complicated. It is easier to say I live alone. And at times it feels that I do. The hollow emptiness that overpowers me some nights, the deep anguish. The solitude.

Except when I’m with her.

He moves into the parlor, appraising his surroundings. I become aware of how little sunlight filters in, even at high noon. Was it always this dark in here? I should have had Maria das Dores open the curtains and clean the windows. I don’t like the way he keeps turning his back to me, and come to think, has he even said what his name is?

“So there is no one else in the house?” he asks.

My breath catches. No, it is not a matter of a distant relative dying and leaving me an inheritance.

“We have servants.” I wave a hand toward the kitchen, where Maria das Dores has retreated and is no doubt pressing an ear to the wall.

“Besides the servants,” he says.

“What brings you here, officer?”

“Routine investigation.”

“Investigation of what?”

He ignores me as he moves through the first floor. He peeks inside my study, the parlor, the alcove, and several other rooms, somehow always a step ahead of me.

My mind races. Legally and officially, he ought to have paperwork. But what do men like him care for paperwork? For legality? No, that is not the way things are done in these parts. Appeals to legality will not work, will only get me beaten up. If anything, what might work is…

“I am a Neves. I want to know what cause or incident brings you here, or I’m afraid I must ask you to leave.”

The Neves name. It’s a card I try not to play, but it’s also the only card I have.

Or don’t have. It depends on who you ask. And that is the danger of invoking the Neves name, but I hope he doesn’t know all that business.

I am the tainted Neves, you could say. The long-neglected black sheep.

He slows, glances over his shoulder at me, and smirks.

I know his type. He reminds me of the bullies from school. He thinks little of me, thinks he can do whatever he wants with me. Thinks he can walk into my home with no explanation, trample over my rights with the mere threat of authority.

He takes a few more steps and stops at the base of the stairs. We are now almost back where we started. He turns to face me, eyes simmering with disdain. I wish he wasn’t so much taller than me.

“Very well, Leandro Neves.” He says my surname with exaggerated emphasis. “A former maidservant reported an incident to us a few days ago. Does that spark any memories?”

Former maidservant. My stomach tightens. The chambermaid hasn’t showed up to work in two days, not since the night when…

“She claims you are keeping a woman locked up in a room here, in this house,” he says. “She saw this woman unconscious in bed, with you beside her. So why don’t you show me the upstairs rooms next?”

27

The glowing orbs of the oil lamps light our path as we move up the staircase. Shadows usher us into the upstairs corridor, which is even dimmer than the first floor. The air is silent and desolate. The darkness, the silence: All of it I am accustomed to. They are almost comforting. But I wonder how it must all appear to my guest, the police inspector.

We cross the corridor in silence. He stands too close to me. I’ve never liked it when people stand too close to me.