Total pages in book: 118
Estimated words: 112001 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 560(@200wpm)___ 448(@250wpm)___ 373(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 112001 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 560(@200wpm)___ 448(@250wpm)___ 373(@300wpm)
She and Daniel didn’t have a home.
“I want to go to the FBI,” she heard herself say as she K-turned and then hit the gas. “The CIA. Every newspaper and TV channel. I want… all kinds of things.”
“This timing just sucks.”
She glanced over. “Is it ever good to get kidnapped?”
“That’s not what I mean.”
She intended to ask him to clarify, but her mind got tangled in frustration and she let it go. Meanwhile, the trip back to the Phalen property took a hundred years, but also seemed to happen in the blink of an eye, and after she piloted them under the porte cochere, Daniel was the one who turned off the engine. He also had to come around and open her door.
“It’s bad timing because we need to go talk to Phalen,” he said.
She blinked stupidly. Then made the connection. “Oh, God. No, not after what happened to her—”
“What choice do we have? We’re running out of time. Maybe she knows about this Kurtis Joel guy.”
Lydia wanted to argue. But in the same way no-control had become her standard operating procedure, balancing two bad options was her perennial crossroads.
So she just followed him into the foyer and up the stairs to the second floor. As they reached the open area at the top, she glanced to the right. When Daniel had been injured and first diagnosed, they had been given a bedroom here on the upper level. Chemo had knocked him hard, however, and to keep him from having to deal with the steps, they’d moved into the suite they were in now.
A lifetime ago, she thought as they went over to a set of double doors that were closed. Just as Daniel curled up a fist and went to knock, the entryway opened on its own.
Across a white carpet the size of most people’s front lawns, C.P. pushed herself up higher on a king-sized bed that was draped with a monogrammed duvet. The parallels to a luxury hotel ended there. At the headboard, padded panels had dropped away to expose hospital-grade monitoring equipment, and surrounded by all the hi-tech machinery, the woman seemed tiny. And very fragile.
Her voice was steady as ever, though: “You want to tell me where you went?” she said briskly. “And Lydia, please don’t look at me like that. I appreciate the sympathy, but I can’t deal with it right now, I really can’t.”
Lydia cleared her throat and brushed a stray hair out of her eye. “Of course. I’m sorry—I mean…”
Daniel stepped forward—and had to take Lydia’s hand before she was willing to follow him. As they approached their hostess, those doors eased closed with a whisper that only Lydia’s wolven ears picked up on.
At least she assumed neither of the humans with her could hear the quiet sound.
When they reached the foot of the bed, she tried not to stare—and failed. C.P. was pale as her floor and walls, but her hair was freshly washed, and for once, she wasn’t wearing Gus’s fleece. A silk dressing robe was wrapped up tight to the base of her throat, and her hand played with the lace lapels, the nervous twining more desperate trembling than any conscious movement.
That fleece was next to her on the bed, though. Folded precisely on the monogrammed pillowcase.
“We need to ask you about something,” Daniel said. “Privately.”
C.P.’s busy hand stilled. Then she called out, “Georgina, give us a minute. Would you.”
From around a corner, a red-haired nurse Lydia recognized leaned in and gave a wave. “I’ll just be in the back. Hit the button if you need me.”
“Thank you.”
The nurse ducked away, and then a door closed sharply, like she wanted to announce her departure to all involved. After that, C.P. stared up with a professional composure, as if they were in her office or her boardroom—
“I’m so sorry,” Lydia blurted. “About the baby.”
As C.P. flinched, Lydia realized what she’d said and slapped a hand over her mouth. But before she could apologize again, and likely mess things up further, the other woman shook her head.
“It’s all right,” she whispered. “Miracles come… and miracles go. Don’t they.”
Abruptly, Lydia glanced over at Daniel. As he switched his cane to his other hand, he looked utterly spent.
“Yes,” she heard herself reply. “They do.”
TWELVE
Club Basque
Market Street and 27th Avenue, Caldwell, New York
AS MUSIC BUMPED, loud as bombs being dropped in sequence, and a herd of humans milled around the alcohol trough of the bar, Xhex spotted tonight’s problem through the shifting bodies. It wasn’t that the man was pushing at people or grinding on them without permission. He wasn’t drunk or twitchy from coke or meth. And in his black sweatshirt and black jeans, he might have been a little casual and covered up, but he wasn’t dressed in a particularly standout fashion.
It was the way the guy stood alone on the periphery of the other patrons, a statue by the hall to the bathrooms.