//CLARA//
I wasn't surprised to find Aunt Cornelia in the foyer. She stood beneath the chandelier like a spider in the center of its web, her hands folded, and her mouth set in a line so thin it was practically invisible.
She had been waiting. She wanted us to know that nothing happened in this house without her awareness.
"And where," she began, her voice dripping with ice, "do you two think you are going at an hour that would make a common streetwalker blush?"
I did not have the energy for a battle. I did not have the patience for her games. Oliver was in a cell, and every minute we wasted was another minute he spent paying for a crime he did not commit.
"Casimir is accompanying me to the warehouse," I said, keeping my temper in check. "We need to find evidence that will help clear Mr. Whitfield's name."
Aunt Cornelia's face went from pale to a mottled, furious red.
