White Wedding

The lighted opening revealed someone stealing into the library on the other side, carefully closing the lounge door behind him. There was a definite furtiveness about the scene framed by the glowing hatch.

Jack seized her by the hand and drew her quietly toward the light.

“What are you doing?” she murmured.

“It’s called spying,” he whispered.

“You can’t,” she whispered back.

He ignored her warning. “This is far enough,” he breathed into her ear. “There’s glass under that grille and no light on this side. If we’re careful, he’ll never know we’re here.”

Lane decided not to challenge him any further. The activity in the next room was far too intriguing. The figure that had slipped into the library was Chris Beaver.

They watched him as he moved swiftly to the open bookshelves. From a cabinet underneath, he extracted a thick volume, which he placed on a table directly in line with their view of the room. It wasn’t until he began flipping through its pages that Lane recognized the book as a photo album. He found what he was seeking seconds later. From its clear, protective envelope he removed a sizable snapshot. Lane, holding her breath, saw him grimly study the photograph for a long minute. From this angle and distance, there was no way to identify the subject.

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