Total pages in book: 75
Estimated words: 77576 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 388(@200wpm)___ 310(@250wpm)___ 259(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 77576 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 388(@200wpm)___ 310(@250wpm)___ 259(@300wpm)
“I admit it’s perplexing,” Uncle Joe says. “And I’ve learned, in the recent past, that my own father was not the paragon of virtue the town would like to think he was.”
“What?” I widen my eyes.
“Seems our family has kept some secrets from us over the years,” Brock says.
“Brock…” Rory admonishes him.
Brock shrugs. “She has the right to know. Just like I had the right to know.”
“The right to know what?” I ask. “What are you two talking about?”
Uncle Joe sighs.
“Ava,” Melanie says, “this is really something your mother and father should talk to you about.”
“Oh, no,” I say. “You’re not opening the door and then slamming it in my face. I came here to get information. Seems like you’re telling me there’s more information than I even know about.”
“I agree with Aunt Melanie,” Uncle Joe says. “You need to talk to your parents first.”
“Dad,” Brock says, “you haven’t even told Uncle Ryan everything.”
My mouth drops open again. “What the hell is going on?”
“Jonah,” Aunt Melanie says, “I agree, but she is your niece.”
“Yes, and I’m her uncle, not her father. This is Ryan’s call, not mine.”
I stand then. “Aunt Melanie, thank you so much for offering to feed me tonight, but I regret that I can’t stay.”
“Ava, please,” Uncle Joe says. “There are things you just don’t understand.”
“I’m twenty-four years old, Uncle Joe. I’m not a child.”
“We know that, sweetheart,” Uncle Joe says. “It’s just—”
“Don’t try to justify anything,” I say.
“You need to tell Uncle Ryan, Dad,” Brock says.
“I see that.”
“Why are you keeping something from my father, anyway?” I demand of Uncle Joe. “He’s your brother, for God’s sake.”
Uncle Joe doesn’t reply. He simply twists his lips slightly.
I shake my head. “Thank you for nothing.” I leave the kitchen, walk through the living room and entryway, and out the door.
I’m tempted to drive to my mother and father’s house, but something stops me.
I need some guidance first.
And that means I’m going home to draw some cards.
I choose only one card.
The guidance I seek is some understanding of the conversation with Brock and Uncle Joe. Why they’re keeping things from my father.
And I gasp aloud when the card hits the table.
It’s the hierophant again. He wears red priestly robes and a crown. Two fingers of his right hand are pointed upward, and in his left hand he holds a triple cross.
In all the years that I’ve practiced the tarot, I’ve never drawn the hierophant with regard to myself…until a few days ago when I first got the ominous text message.
One difference though.
This time the card is in the reverse position.
The word that comes to my mind as soon as I see the card is hypocrisy.
Hypocrisy with regard to whom? Brock? Uncle Joe? My own father?
I’m not sure, but something pokes at the back of my neck.
There is knowledge out there—secret knowledge—and this message I received has something to do with it.
And my family’s involvement?
Whatever it is, in some way, I may find that it’s hypocritical.
That is what my intuition tells me.
A wave of sadness surges through me.
I may have chosen to separate myself financially from my family, but I love them without question. I always have. This card doesn’t change that fact.
But they are people. Individuals. And no individual is perfect.
Not even someone from the Steel family.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
BRENDAN
A week later, my place is ready. The insurance money paid for everything, including great-quality new furniture, which has already been moved in. A leather couch and recliner are the focus of my living room, way nicer than what I had previously. Bending Ava over that new couch…
Damn. Already the image is seared into my mind.
The hardwood floors are freshly polished, and I nearly slid across them when I first walked into the place.
Hell, this is way better than it was before.
I’ve missed Ava, but she’s been quiet lately. We’ve shared a few lunches, but the couple of times I’ve asked her to have dinner, she’s said she’s busy.
Perhaps we aren’t meant to be.
I will have to accept that.
I asked her a few times if she had heard from her mother about the message, and she simply shook her head.
Now that my place is ready, I’m going to try once more. I’ll ask her to come over to dinner. I make a mean hamburger.
I walk to the bakery at five fifty-five. That way I’ll be able to get into the building through the front door. As it turns out, she’s standing right inside the door, turning the sign from Open to Closed just as I arrive.
“Ava,” I say through the door. “I know you can hear me. Come on. We need to talk.”
She—somewhat reluctantly?—opens the door. “Hi, Brendan.”
“Look, I don’t know what I did to upset you, but—”
She wipes her hand on her flour-covered apron. “You didn’t do anything. This has nothing to do with you.”