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I quirk an eyebrow. "Where is the Miss?"
He grins sheepishly and shrugs. "I think we're officially past it."
I can't stop myself from laughing out loud. What just happened? I was close to losing it, and this man that usually lacks any emotion—not that it's his fault, it's simply a trait his line of work brings with itself—completely snapped me out of it.
My mood sobers, and I confess in a whisper, "I don't know what would've happened if you hadn't come home when you did."
He seems to understand. After all, he has seen me through several episodes by now. "I'm glad I was here when you needed me." He looks around before his gaze settles back on me. "How about some tea, and we can go over the plan for the next two days."
With Nate havingto take the jet to Europe, George is going to take the RAM to meet Hector Lakatos. He'll be leaving in the early evening and driving through the night to make it to the agreed-upon location mid-morning. He wants time to scope out the area. After the meet, he'll check in with Nate and me, let us know what he found out, and get a few hours of rest before driving back. I ask why he wouldn't just fly—less physically draining and all—to which he gives me a stare like I’ve said something ludicrous. When I don’t catch on, he just fans his jacket open and reveals his Glock.
Oh.
"Oh."
"The TSA people don't take too kindly to my security measures," he deadpans.
"You mean they don’t let you bring an arsenal for a small town on a commercial plane?" I smirk.
He just winks at me.
George also is not too happy with me about taking the car for a drive. I have to swear up and down that I will not leave the premises while he and Nate are gone. I almost blurt out that Denielle will be arriving tomorrow but bite my tongue. I'll tell Nate later when he calls. Maybe. They’ll find out eventually. A light flutter stirs in my belly. I can't wait to have my best friend here.
After Georgeand I eat dinner, I walk with him to the garage. He loaded his truck earlier, and I watch him pull out. He gives me another nod before pressing the garage opener on the visor. As soon as the gate is fully closed, an empty feeling settles in my stomach. I step back into the hallway and close the door, arming the system. A synchronous beep echoes through the house, and I clutch my cell phone in my hand.
The urge to call Rhys overcomes me again, but instead, I send Denielle a text: Can’t wait to see u tmrw.
The response is instant. Just landed in Chi-town. Thank fuck I’m not leaving the airport. Can u believe it’s snowing here. IT’S APRIL!
Just a few more hours and u’ll be in the golden state. ;) It was 72 today.
The bubble pops up again. TSNF. I’m freezing my ass off.
I bark out a laugh, picturing my best friend at O’Hare, complaining at the poor lounge employees to bring her a blanket.
Get some rest. Call me when you land at LAX.
Will do. LY.
LY2.
Still standing in the hallway, I contemplate what to do. It's too early to sleep—not that I can anyway. I can't sit still long enough to enjoy a movie or book, and I don’t feel like exploring new parts of the mansion—not while I’m the only person here.
My feet take me back to Brooks's office. The room has become oddly comforting to me, the warm colors and soft light of the lamps making the room cozy. When Nate started looking into the finances, I cleaned up what I had left on the floor, including the photo albums. Padding across the room, I open the double doors and pull the three leatherbound books out. I place all three next to each other on the desk and lower myself into the chair, pulling my legs underneath me. Sitting where my father used to spend hours on end makes me feel like I have a connection to him. I flip the first one open and start turning the pages. Not that I want to have another migraine, but there is a little spark of hope that has remained inside of me and is waiting for me to remember...everything. After an hour of scanning picture after picture, I still feel like I'm spying on a stranger's life. My jaw clenches.
Screw this.
I stack all three albums on top of each other and spin in the chair to put them back in their spot. As I turn, the pocket of Rhys's hoodie—which I've been wearing for three days in a row—gets caught on the desk chair's armrest. I try to disentangle myself while balancing the heavy leather books on one arm. With the weight wearing me down, I attempt a final pull. I'm free, but my force propels the chair in the opposite direction—straight into the other shelf. Books fall over, a framed picture of Brooks and Payton crashes to the floor and shatters into a thousand pieces, and as if in slow motion, I watch another row of books tilting like dominos. I watch in horror as the tipping books push the stand containing Denton John Altman II’s pipe collection toward the edge. Dropping the photo albums, I reach out and watch the pipes sail past my outstretched hand.
No, no, no.
When Nate finally was past his anxiety, he told me about all the items displayed. As suspected, a lot were souvenirs from their travels, and it sounded like the Hamlin's did a lot of that.
That's my luck, ruining one of Nate's grandfather's favorite possessions. Shit!
I kneel, careful not to cut myself on the broken frame, and start picking up the antique-looking pipes. I carefully place one after another back into the stand—which, by a miracle, is still in one piece—but then suddenly halt. I turn the pipe over in my hand and inspect it carefully. This one doesn't match the rest. It's new and... I turn it again. It’s plastic made to look like wood.
Taking it between both hands, I squint. Something looks weird. I twist the mouthpiece, and my eyes widen as I repeat the motion. With shaking hands, I turn and pull at the same time. My heart is hammering against my ribcage. What is this? The object slowly comes apart and—what the hell?
