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“I agree,” I reply with a small nod. “It has to have something to do with my father. Whose call will a healer heed if not a powerful sage? And the fact that her activities in Cornwall can’t be traced makes the whole thing all the more suspicious.” I look at Tory with a slight frown. “Didn’t you say she got sick shortly after she came back from England?”
Tory nods. “I believe so.”
“Was she already sick before or after returning to NOLA?” Pocus asks.
“I’m not sure about the details, but my Aunt Mimi only told me about my ma being committed to a psychiatric home a couple of years after the whole thing. She acted on my ma’s wish, though. I was only twelve, and ma didn’t think I was old enough to handle the news. By the time I was eighteen and capable of taking responsibility for my Ma, I checked her out of the hospital and took her back home. It was too late to get anything out of her, though.”
Pocus sits forward in his chair, and his hands clasped tight on his knees, showing his deep interest in the conversation. “What was the nature of her illness?”
“The doctors diagnosed her with Bipolar disorder, but it never seemed like a perfect fit. The treatments they gave her didn’t work. She was always murmuring to herself or off in some imaginary world. I think in her imaginary place, she could be something closer to how she wanted to be instead of how she was. There were some good days, but even on the good days, she was distant with me and mostly focused on my training.”
“I guess the only way we can know what really happened is if we get someone from Cornwall who might remember her,” Snake says. “But I doubt that. It’s been so long.”
“Do you think maybe Dana remembers something?” Pocus asks, directing the question at me.
I shake my head uncertainly. “She was only eight years old back then. I doubt she’d remember a woman from that time or even be privy to the details of her visit.”
“I guess it all boils down to finding Edward,” Pocus says with a resigned sigh. “It seems the bastard is the only one who can explain satisfactorily.”
“I’m sorry I couldn’t find out more about what happened to your mom,” Snake says to Tory with a remorseful expression. “However, I found something interesting while digging into the whole thing. Eight years ago, Gerald Abner acquired a foreign company’s assets worth billions of dollars for less than a quarter of the going price. It was obviously a big deal, but the whole thing was so hushed that the media hardly got wind of it. However, an unknown reporter published an article on it in some insignificant blog. He took the article down, but I found some screenshots of it.”
“How’s any of this related?” Pocus asks, taking the question right out of my mouth. We all know how Snake gets carried away whenever he’s in his element, so most times, we have to pull him back into reality with pointed questions or firm commands.
“Guess who the original owner of the company was?” Snake asks, looking at each of us with an expectant smile.
“Quit the fucking theatrics, Snake,” Pocus grumbles. “How does this whole shit come together?”
“Sorry, Prez,” Snake says, his expression instantly becoming contrite. “The company belonged to Anderson Grey.”
“What the fuck?” I mutter. The name sends a chill down my spine.
A small fucking world, it is.
* * *
“Mr. Grey will not see you,” repeats the lanky prison guard with shifty black eyes in a tone as expressionless as his bland face.
Pocus runs a hand through his hair, muttering a long string of Cajun curse words under his breath.
I understand his frustration. In fact, I am just a few seconds away from my breaking point. If I had my way, I’d snap the little man’s thin neck just to get a reaction out of him. We’ve been hearing the same line from various guards for hours.
“I fucking paid you to get this shit done,” Pocus says, his voice barely under control. “I need answers, not a fucking automated message.”
“It’s not my fault Mr. Grey wouldn’t listen to anything I had to say about you,” the guard says. “He was very clear about not taking visitors at the moment.”
“Did you even relay the message at all?” I ask, narrowing my eyes suspiciously at him.
The man had the decency to look offended. “Of course I did,” he says indignantly.
“Unbelievable,” Pocus mutters under his breath. “I can’t believe this fucking bastard.”
Pocus moves so suddenly that even I almost got whiplash. His fist connects with the guard’s frail jaw, sending the man flying off his feet before dropping to the ground in a pitiful heap. Pocus grabs him by the collar, ready to smash the poor man to a pulp.
“Du calme, Prez,” I say, quickly holding out my right hand to stop him. I turn my attention to the guard, whose eyes are now wide open with fright. The trickle of blood dripping down his upper lip to his jaw, coupled with the slight crook in his nose, makes him look like a demented clown, but I’m not in the mood for laughs.
“Can you pass another message?” I ask him.
“Y- yes, sir.” He’s nodding his head so fast that I’m worried he’ll pass out.
