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SINS OF THE SYNDICATE
BOOK ONE
IVY
“I’m here to see Ms. Palmer.”
The man’s voice is deep, with an authority that makes me wonder why he requested his tour of the assisted living center with me. His suit is expensive but not overly fitted. And the dark gray is a stark contrast to the clear blue of his eyes. The silvery accents in his well-trimmed salt-and-pepper hair give him the air of distinction, with professional charm brimming from behind what seems to be a practiced smile.
It’s not unlike the smiles I’m used to from people clinging to their courtesy as they navigate a world of decisions. How will I care for my loved one? Will they be safe? Is this covered by insurance? How much will it cost?
If money is no object, the ones with the deepest pockets land here. Except for me. It took two years for me to work off my mom’s debt, and it gave me a lifetime’s worth of watching people in return. I remind myself that I’m here to ease them into a relationship of trust and support. Not to pressure them with a hard sell, despite those very words from my boss.
“I’m Ivy,” I say, stepping out from behind the long reception desk. I hold out a hand, meeting his solemn smile with one of my own as he takes my hand for a brief shake. “And you’re Mr.—”
“Sin,” he says, scanning the lobby and halls. I can’t tell if he’s overwhelmed or underwhelmed, but he avoids meeting my eyes as he glances around. “Call me Sin.”
“All right,Sin.”
I’ve already seen the roster, noting that the tour request was made by a Bryce Jacob Sinclair, Esquire. The formal name suits him as equally as the nickname Sin. A gravity and authority harden the lines of his face, hiding whatever’s lurking just below the surface.
The heaviness that drags him down threatens to pull me with it, an occupational hazard to a career dependent on emotional connection and empathy. When his expectant eyes meet mine, I snap back to work.
Handing him a visitor badge, I gesture down the north hall. “This way.”
Along our tour, Sin asks the usual questions: How many occupants are there? What’s the caregiver-to-resident ratio? If the staff live on the premises—which feels more like he’s asking ifIlive on the premises.
No matter how many times I give this tour, I’m delighted when he asks about the one thing that always connects us, though it never seems to at first. Mr. Whiskers.
The small fluffy toy is weightless in my hand as I tug it from the pocket it’s been peeking out from and hold it up.
I’m not the only one beaming at the sight of him. Even the stone-faced Sin cracks a smile, albeit a very small one. It creases his face enough that I peg him to be about sixty, which makes me wonder if he’s looking at the facility for his mother or possibly his wife.
“This is Mr. Whiskers.”
“Your stuffed animal?” Sin’s studious eyes move from it to me, the intensity of his gaze so much harsher than is warranted by my crazy talk.
Unnerved, I take in a breath. “Mr. Whiskers is so much more than that. He’s a therapy stuffed animal. You can even pop him in the microwave to warm him up.”
I avoid talking about my past or that Mr. Whiskers has been my personal security blanket for nearly twenty years.
Sin nods. “Do all residents get a toy? Or just the bad ones?” His contempt doesn’t bother me. He doesn’t understand, and it’s my job to help him understand.
“Sparrow Wellness and Assisted Living is unlike any facility you may have seen. Our occupants range in age from twenty to eighty-two. Sometimes, a little non-threatening toy is a great way for people to open up. I didn’t have to say a word about him, and you asked.”
His face is stone. No hint as to whether he’s annoyed or amused. His eyes wander through the opening to a vacant room. “Continue.”
“Even if they aren’t interested in a little support from a cuddly friend, he’s a big hit with the children who visit. We keep a small stockpile in the back.”
“Trauma victims?” He mutters the question under his breath in a way that sounds less like distaste and more like hope.
“We cater to a wide range of conditions, trauma being just one of them. Some residents have degenerative conditions that require more care than their families can provide. Others don’t have families, in which case we become their family if their physician recommends us.”
Sin takes several steps into the room, moving his gaze from the warm cream walls and big bay window to me. “Looking for a family, Ms. Palmer?”
His tone is sharp and icy, with enough condescension that I have to remind myself that people in pain tend to inflict pain. He’s just hurting, and I’m the closest target within striking distance. But it’s not directed at me.Even if it is the truth.
