Page 188 of Hades

She blinked. “What?”

“Your tea.” I turned toward the door. “You always have tea before bed.”

“Lettie—”

“I’ll be right back.”

I walked out of the room. Cerberus followed. The hallway felt longer than it should have. The kitchen was dark except for the light over the stove. Brock stood by the counter, arms crossed, watching me.

“Well?” he asked.

I moved to the stove, filling the kettle and setting it on the burner. “She took me because she couldn’t have children,” I said. My voice was flat. Mechanical. “She thought my mother didn’t deserve me. Thought she could love me better.”

“And Zander?” Brock’s tone was careful.

I turned the burner on. Watched the flame catch. “Just a man who showed up every year and paid attention to her. Made her feel like she mattered.” My voice stayed clinical. Detached.

Brock didn’t interrupt.

“She was lonely. Invisible. He made her feel seen.” I pulled a mug from the cabinet. “She didn’t know who he was. Didn’t know about his connections or what he wanted from her. She was naïve enough to think he actually cared.”

I opened the drawer and found the tea bags. Chamomile. Her favorite.

“He used her loneliness to get information. But she didn’t knowingly help him. She didn’t understand what she was giving him or why it mattered.”

“She was a tool,” Brock said quietly.

“Yes. But she didn’t know it.”

The kettle started to whistle. I turned off the burner and poured the water into the mug, watching the steam rise. I reached into the cabinet and pulled down the small jar, staring at it for just a moment before I unscrewed the cap and used the spoon to stir the powder into the hot water.

Too little and she’ll just be irritable.

Too much and she won’t wake up.

I added enough sugar to mask the taste, then grabbed the packet of cookies and laid them out on the tray.

Brock watched me the entire time. He didn’t speak. Didn’t stop me. Didn’t look away.

I picked up the tray and walked back down the hallway, Cerberus at my side. Claire was still in her recliner. Eyes closed. Hands folded.

That was who she was now.

Claire Morrison.

My mother’s best friend. The woman who crept into a sleeping house and stole a baby.

“Here,” I said.

She opened her eyes and looked at the mug.

“Thank you, dear.”

The word hit me like a fist. Dear. She only ever called me that during this time of year. I set the mug on the side table and sat on the edge of the coffee table.

“I need you to know something,” I said.

She looked at me.