Total pages in book: 141
Estimated words: 142043 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 710(@200wpm)___ 568(@250wpm)___ 473(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 142043 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 710(@200wpm)___ 568(@250wpm)___ 473(@300wpm)
Double hell.
I wonder if my mother knows. “Did you mention this to Rowena?”
“No. She flew back to New York as soon as we touched down from Tirana.”
“You knew about this at the wedding?” My voice has risen several octaves.
Caroline’s eyes widen, and I have my answer.
And you didn’t fucking tell me?
I glare at her, suddenly livid. I might have something wrong with me, and I’ve just got married!
Fuck. What have I saddled Alessia with?
But before I can get really fucking angry, we’re interrupted by a knock at the door, and Lisa enters carrying a tray with coffee. It gives me a moment to rein in my temper.
“I took the liberty of making you some coffee,” Lisa says with a bright smile.
“Thanks,” I mutter as she places it on the table.
“Thank you, Lisa,” Caro says, and Lisa stands awkwardly, surveying us for a moment.
“That will be all. Thanks again.” I force a smile, and I’m relieved when she leaves.
“Did you call this place?” I ask, tapping the letter from the genetic counseling clinic.
“Yes. They wouldn’t tell me anything either, even though I’m next of kin.”
Fucking hell.
“I don’t think they’d talk to you either,” Caroline says gently.
“Well, maybe I can get some answers out of Renton. After all, he’s my GP too. In fact, I need to sign Alessia up. Hell, I may even have to call Rowena.”
“Maxim, I’m sure it’s nothing,” Caroline says.
“How the hell do you know?” I shout, rising from the table, and to my shame, Caro flinches.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
I want to scream.
I’m as angry with her now as I was in Albania when I found out she told Alessia about us. I drag a hand through my hair and pace across the fucking antique Persian rug on the floor.
Dude. Get a grip.
“I’ll do some digging before we tell Maryanne,” I mutter.
“She might be able to shed some light. After all, she is a doctor.”
“Let me find out what we’re dealing with here.”
She’s my sister, and it’s my fucking job to protect her.
Caro blows out a breath. “Okay. The other thing we need to discuss is Kit’s memorial.”
“Not now.”
“Well, I’ve spoken with the Dean of Westminster’s office.”
“And?”
“They’re suggesting a date in April.”
“Isn’t that a bit soon?”
“Is it?” Caroline says.
“Oh hell, Caro. I don’t know. Let me think about it. This is… a lot.”
“It is,” she admits. “Are you sure I can’t take you to lunch?”
“I have to leave shortly. Alessia and I are meeting a lawyer. About her immigration status.”
“Oh?”
“Yeah.”
Caroline purses her lips, but her expression softens. “I’m sorry,” she murmurs. “For not telling you. At the wedding.”
I slump into the chair behind what is now my desk. “Perhaps something here might shed some light on these letters.” Grabbing the keys, I try the first tiny brass key that looks most likely to fit. The fourth key works and I open the first of the drawers. It contains a rack of suspension files.
Caroline moves to sit in the chair opposite the desk, craning her neck to see if I find anything. I quickly scan through the files, but they seem to be personal—a collection of clippings from car magazines, a file with letters from the LSE, some CVs, and a weighty leather diary from last year. I drag it out, place it on the desk, and quickly leaf through it, checking the dates mentioned on the letters. Alas, the diary holds no clues.
Bugger.
“Anything?” Caroline asks.
I shake my head.
The other drawers don’t yield any leads either. Just some cool stationary and some mementos from Kit’s trips around the world. My search is fruitless, but a thought occurs to me.
“Where’s Kit’s laptop? Or his phone for that matter? Or even his journal?”
“I’ve no idea.”
“What do you mean? They’re not with his possessions? Perhaps it’s here. Or in the safe at Trevelyan House or the Hall?”
Caroline lifts her chin. “I don’t know.”
“Can you check?”
She shrugs in a noncommittal, un-Caro way.
“Really?”
She shakes her head looking abashed and a little sheepish. “I can try,” she mutters.
“I’m going to call Renton, make an appointment, and also try the genetic counseling clinic.”
“I hope you have better luck than me.” She stands. “I’d better go. I’m sure this is nothing, Maxim.”
I rise to my feet, and we gaze at each other, and I’m wondering once more what Kit was doing on his motorcycle racing through the Trevethick lanes in the depths of an icy winter. Is she thinking the same? Was the news so bad that he took his own life?
Fuck.
Neither of us says anything. Caroline’s breath catches and her pupils grow darker and larger. I don’t like what that telegraphs, but before I can be sure, she breaks eye contact, glancing toward the door. “I’m sorry,” she whispers, and she exits the room, leaving me entirely at sea—alone, angry… and scared.
I check my watch and realize I’ve enough time to walk home and clear my head. Grabbing my coat, I head out of the office.