The Angel

“Sounds as if you know something about this collection yourself,” Abigail said.

Augustine shrugged. “Charlotte and I saw the originals on a trip to Italy last summer. We helped Victor find a painter to do this copy.”

This obviously struck a nerve with Bob. “What for?”

“He wanted it.”

Bob moved closer to the painting. “Kind of looks like Mordor in the Lord of the Rings movies, doesn’t it? I haven’t read the books. My daughters have—I got through The Hobbit, and that was it for me.”

By habit and conviction, Abigail knew, he never used the names of any of his three daughters—Fiona, Madeleine and Jayne. At nineteen, Fiona was the eldest and more or less on her own, but Madeleine and Jayne were just fourteen and eleven. They lived with their mother in Lexington, close enough to visit their father regularly. They were good kids and got along with him, not always an easy task.

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