Total pages in book: 113
Estimated words: 108517 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 543(@200wpm)___ 434(@250wpm)___ 362(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 108517 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 543(@200wpm)___ 434(@250wpm)___ 362(@300wpm)
The vise around my mind tightened. My grandmother’s eyes bored into mine. Holding her gaze was like trying to stare into the sun. It would burn your mind right through your eyes if you weren’t careful.
“You did not answer my question,” she said.
“Grandmother . . .” I started.
She leaned forward, looking like an ancient predatory raptor. “What are you hiding?”
She’d left me no choice.
“Trevor, Grandmother is in danger.”
Magic shot out of Trevor like an invisible fist and walloped Victoria. Her eyes rolled back into her skull, and she slumped onto the bed. Trevor scooped her up. The tendril of magic that connected us pulsed as I fed him a little more reassurance.
“Follow me please.”
We walked out of the infirmary, Trevor with my grandmother in his arms following two steps behind. The guard stood aside, averting his eyes, as if we were carrying a plague victim.
“You cooked Trevor?” Alessandro muttered in Italian.
“Yes.”
“When?”
“I did it little by little each time she sent him to talk to me.”
“There will be hell to pay when she wakes up.”
“I’m ready for it.”
I walked into my office, shut the door, sat behind my desk, and took a deep breath. We had settled Grandmother Victoria in a bedroom upstairs. She was still out. I was ready to resume our discussion about baggage and secret fiancées, but Patricia came and got Alessandro because there was some urgent security issue that required his attention.
That was fine. I could use some time to cool off.
I stared at my screen. So much had happened this morning and I’d had no time to process any of it.
My gaze snagged on the scented candle on my desk. Serenity and Calm. Yes, I would like some of that. I rummaged in my top drawer for the candle lighter until I found it, lit the candle, and stared at it. Normally the calm candles smelled of lavender, but this one was vanilla with a hint of cinnamon, a soothing warm aroma that made me think of baking and Nevada.
Nevada . . .
I tapped the keyboard and initiated a video call. I could’ve just used the phone, but despite replacing it, I was still wary. Not that calling through the computer was any safer, it was the same . . .
Nevada appeared on the screen. Her hair was in a loose braid. She sat on the large couch in the situation room on the second floor of their house. The computer screen offered me a nice view of her and a small slice of the coffee table. She must’ve taken the call on her tablet.
Somewhere out of view Bug was likely perched in front of a cluster of monitors. Arthur had fallen asleep next to Nevada, and his dark head was on her lap. Someone had put a soft crocheted blanket over him. Connor’s mother made them for her grandson. He had one in every color.
“Hey,” my sister said.
“Is now a bad time?”
“Not at all. Bug is the only one here, and he has headphones on.” She raised a mug to her lips and sipped from it.
“What are you drinking?”
“Milky oolong. It’s soothing. You would like it. I’ll bring some over once this thing is done.”
“Thank you for your help with Matt.”
“You’re welcome, but you don’t have to thank me. I like to make sure the DA office owes me. Keeps them out of trouble.”
“Did you get anything good?”
Nevada smiled her scary truthseeker smile. “The man was a treasure trove.”
I had run out of neutral things to talk about. It was time to get to the point.
“Linus is still unconscious.”
Nevada sighed. “He is a tough man. As long as he’s still breathing, there is hope.”
“He left a USB. One of those ‘If you are watching this, I am dead’ recordings.” Which was currently cooling its heels in Bern’s dehydrator, because I was stupid enough to drown it.
“Mhm,” Nevada said.
“He says he’s our grandfather.”
Nevada sipped her tea.
“You don’t seem surprised,” I pointed out.
“I thought he might be.”
“Because he paid a lot of attention to us without any logical reason?”
She shook her head. “How well do you remember Dad?”
I was twelve years old when our father died. “What do you mean?”
“Do you remember his face?”
I tried to recall it. I remembered his presence, I remembered what it felt like when he was in the room, his blond hair, but his face was . . . smudged. Guilt bit at me. I had forgotten my dad’s face.
“On the server, there should be a folder under Photos that says Mom and Dad’s Wedding,” Nevada said.
I split the screen in half, searched for the folder, found it, and opened a slideshow. Mom, smiling, in a white dress, so young looking. She looked like a kid, like she was one of us. For some reason that was slightly disturbing. And Dad next to her, blond, almost pretty rather than handsome, grinning. The memories came flooding back from my childhood. I remembered his face now.