18
It takes at least a million years to putter over to the Ryder mansion. I park the wagon, jog up to the front door, and test the handle. It swings open.
I step inside the reception hall.
“Hello? Anybody here?” I check my watch. Almost 5 o’clock. They must have left. “Hells bells.” Frustration bolts through my arms and legs. My gaze rests on the dainty porcelain statues lining the reception hall’s gilded tables. Damn, I’d love to smash a few of those against the wall. My hands ball into fists.
Voices echo in from the East Wing ballroom.
My fists loosen. Maybe I’m not too late.
With halting steps, I follow the sounds down the hallway. At the end of the corridor, the arched gateway to the ballroom lies open. I peer inside.
Lincoln stands at the center of the ballroom floor, a square
