There was a cold light to Gillian's eyes, as if something fierce lurked behind the sallow mask of emotionless undeath, something as wild and dangerous as the werewolf currently coming out of the house with a suitcase in one hand, a packed shoulder bag trailing stockings and leather straps, a Tiffany lamp under one arm and an original Hockney painting held by its hanging wire.
She was trying to shut the door with her feet but some sixth sense – or more likely one of the basic five, since Felicia's sense of smell was fifty times that of a human's – alerted her to their presence. She left the door and hurried across to her parked Audi. The suitcase she hefted onto the the back seat, quickly followed by the shoulder bag, which she used to secure the lamp. She popped the large boot for the painting.
“Making off with the spoils?” Gillian crossed the thirty yards in less than a second, her supernatural speed leaving a ghost image on Harold's retinas. “You might at least have had the courtesy to wait for us.”
“Past the crime tape?” The younger woman jerked her head toward the door, where blue and white streamers hung limply in the damp, post-rainy air. “I didn't think you'd be back tonight. I needed some clothes for work.”
“And a painting, I see. Isn't that one of Harold's favourites?”
“Yes, but to be fair, she brought it with her when she moved in.”
Gillian's eyes flashed. “I wasn't asking you, Harold.”