I could see that he was uncomfortable with the subject, so I changed it. “What about the video? I saw the marks on the door out front and the camera.”
“Yes.” He sounded grateful to talk about it. “The police collected the disc and the machine as evidence. The camera isn’t plugged into anything anymore. Sorry. I did watch the video before I reported the break-in, obviously.”
“Tell me what happened.”
“Nothing to tell. I came home from my trip. I was surprised to see the front gate standing open. I didn’t even realize it had been broken until later; I thought I’d forgotten to lock it. The door was open slightly. I saw the scratches and pushed it wide. When I walked in … it felt weird, you know? I was suddenly really afraid, as if I would find a burglar waiting for me. I went inside anyway. Only one … nothing was missing. I checked the security camera, and it had been turned off. I played the last fifteen minutes that it had recorded and …”
“What did you see?”
“Nothing. The video showed the front stair and front walk, but there was nothing to see. After a while, the door burst inward suddenly as though it was hit by the wind. A minute or so later the video ended.”
Something was off about this story, but I couldn’t figure what. “Can I see where the machine was set up?”
Lino shrugged and led me into the hall. On the other side of the house was a small library, although it had more knickknacks than books. He opened a little closet and showed me a bare shelf with a bundle of wires running out of the wood. “The insurance company lowered the rates when the trustee put this in, for all the good it did.”
“Could someone have been standing to the side when—”
“No,” Lino answered, as though he’d answered that question many times. “The video showed the whole door. You saw how the camera was placed. I haven’t moved it since it was installed.”
“What did you see that made you afraid? Why did you say ‘Only one’?”
He looked uncomfortable for a moment, then shuffled his feet. “Come with me.”
He led me to the dining room at the end of the hall. There were cupboards along each wall, with more plates and odd objects displayed on shelves. There was a place setting at the table, with a bowl of pita chips sitting out. Lino snacked on one as he walked by.
“See this?” He indicated a not-quite-square mirror about two feet wide. “The frame is walnut with gold leaf.”
I expected him to tell me he had seen a reflection in the mirror, but it wasn’t positioned where he could see it from the front hall. Next he showed me a surgeon’s kit—a wooden case filled with knives, saws, and needles. Then he showed me a battered copper kettle, a drum with an eagle on the side, an apothecary balance that predated the Revolutionary War, and a daguerreotype of a husband and wife who had been friends of the owner’s great-great- grandfather.
Why was he giving me the tour? I leaned close to the picture and studied the faces. I half expected to recognize them. “They don’t look like anyone’s friends.”
“Dour, aren’t they? And over here—”
“Lino, you were going to show me something.” He was standing next to a wooden object that I could never have guessed the purpose of. He looked both confused and secretive. He glanced down at the shelf beside him, and I followed his gaze.
There was a little metal sculpture on the shelf near the items Lino had been describing to me. It showed a seated man with an open book in his lap, while a second man behind him chopped off his head with a sword. In fact, the figure was in midstroke, and only a little bit of the seated man’s neck still connected his head to his shoulders.
I leaned in close, even though it seemed like an unbearable imposition on Lino’s privacy to do it. The swordsman didn’t have a face—was he wearing a hood? It didn’t seem so. The seated man’s face looked serene. I guessed he’d finished the book.
“When I came into the house after the break-in,” Lino said, “this little statue had been moved into the hall. Someone had taken it off the shelf and set it down right in the middle of the floor over there.”
Lino offered me another glass of water, and I gratefully accepted. I wasn’t thirsty, but it felt good to follow him into the kitchen away from the statue—it felt profoundly wrong to pay attention to it.
This had happened to me before, I suddenly realized. Some kinds of magic—very powerful magic—could make you think certain thoughts. Every time I looked at that statue, I felt like I was intruding on someone’s privacy, and it was unbearable.
Which was ridiculous. I used to be a car thief, after all. I’ve intruded on quite a few private spaces in my time, and I never gave a damn. I’d also spent time in prison, where guys did every private thing you can imagine in full view, from crying like a baby over a letter scrawled in crayon to beating off to rape. Now that I was outside, I was protective of my privacy and happy to let others have theirs, but I didn’t have shame. Not that kind, anyway.
Which meant I was being magically controlled. I reached up and touched the space under my right collarbone where Annalise had put an iron-gate spell. It was supposed to protect me from mental attacks, but it hadn’t even twinged. I didn’t know what that meant, but it made me nervous.
And it told me that damn statue was important.
“Tell me about the statue,” I said. It took an effort.
Lino turned away from me and picked up a little pot on the stove. He moved to a makeshift plastic funnel by the side window and emptied the pot into it. I heard the water run through the pipe and out the window.
“There’s a drought on,” he said. “I have a rain barrel in the back and a drip irrigation system for the plants. All my tea, pasta water, and such flows into the yard. Very water-efficient. I even have a pump for the bathtub.”
“Lino,” I said, keeping myself focused and my gaze direct. “Tell me about the statue.”
Lino glanced at the door, as though the little statue might be standing there watching him. “It’s part of the
