***Alec***
Alec closed the door behind himself and paused to look at it for a few seconds. He hoped he was doing this right. He couldn’t fuck this up. He knew he should have talked to her more, told her more of what was going on, more of the truth—just not all of the truth. But he wasn’t sure how to word it all yet, how to tell her enough to keep her calm, keep her from leaving, while not letting her figure too much. She was too damn smart. He had to handle her carefully.
He headed for the stairs. Vincent was surely not far, but Alec wasn’t in the mood to deal with him. Alec only spoke when necessary, when he could handle a conversation, and tonight was not one of those nights. He also knew that night would not be a night for sleep. The gardens and the clearing would likely be his company, not his dreams—he couldn’t handle those tonight.
Then he paused on his way through the great room to the back yard. Perhaps he would take a trip to Providence Street instead. He could park in that little lane she liked so much and slip through the dark yards of the neighboring houses. The area should be checked out, anyway. They didn’t know exactly how many men Dean had loyal to him, how many were watching her house—more intel was necessary before they made any further moves. Besides, she would need fresh clothes in the morning. He needed to be occupied tonight, and this would do the trick.
***Adriane***
Curled into the corner of the sofa, I eventually fell asleep, still with thoughts and worries circling my head, like vultures feeding off my sense of calm.
Even in my dreams, I couldn’t gain that comfortable feeling of numbness, not completely. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d dreamed, but I woke with the sense I’d been dreaming something pleasant, beautiful, something far-off and unattainable. It felt like when I used to dream about my parents. I was glad I didn’t remember the dream.
I opened my eyes and touched my cheek. It was wet. I looked at my damp fingertips as if they were scaly. I hadn’t cried in years.
My legs stiff from being curled up, I slowly straightened them and sat normally on the sofa. The morning light filled the room, brightened it enough to be able to see the furnishings properly. It was luxurious, just like the rest of the house. Dark-paneled walls backdropped the stone fireplace. The bed looked like clouds, white and fluffy. The furniture was all dark wood with traditional lines, maybe antiques, very expensive and well-restored antiques.
Behind the sofa was a desk with some books on it. I reached back and grabbed the one off the top. Jane Eyre. I picked up the next two—The Scarlet Pimpernel and Pride and Prejudice. I set them back down. It had to be a coincidence, just like the apple butter. All women liked those books, right? It was just by luck that they were my favorites.
I stood from the sofa and walked over to the window. I’d pushed my shoes off at some point, to more easily be able to pull myself into a ball. The rug felt like cashmere on my feet. I didn’t own any cashmere, of course, but I’d picked up Mr. Mason’s dry cleaning enough to know what it felt like. I should’ve realized an accountant’s clothes shouldn’t be that extravagant—my father’s hadn’t been.
This side of the house sat at the edge of the cliffs, and the windows faced the ocean. I felt like I was right on top of it. The ocean reflected the rising sun, gold glittering off the restless waves. The trees just outside the window had to be growing out of the side of the cliff; they were so close I could hear the wind shake the branches and flutter the leaves as it swished around the house.
Something in my chest felt like the fluttering leaves. Nothing in me had fluttered for a very long time. I’d learned a long time ago how to push my mother’s illness and my father’s car accident into compartments in my head, and I allowed nothing else in my life that evoked emotion. Part of me would’ve rather been taken prisoner, rather than as a guest. I would know what I was supposed to feel. In many ways, fear was easier to handle than confusion. It was clean, focused. I wouldn’t have to think about it.
I hoped movement would help. I started toward the shower, dreading having to put back on the same clothes.
A quiet knock.
I paused, considering ignoring the knock. But I couldn’t very well hide in here.
I smoothed my shirt then cracked the door.
The old woman’s kind face creased with her smile. “I didn’t wake you, did I, dear?”
I opened the door a bit wider. “No.”
“Alec said you’d be up early. He thought you would like to have some of your own things.” She handed me a small duffle and then rested her delicate hands on the front of her flowered apron.
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome, dear. Come down when you’re ready, and I’ll have some breakfast for you.” Still smiling gently, she turned for the steps.
I closed the door and put the bag down on the chair then began rummaging through its contents—an assortment of my clothes. I found my jeans and a plain shirt. Then I walked past the perfectly made bed to the bathroom. It was bright, with old-fashioned white tile, and on the counter sat shampoo, a toothbrush, toothpaste, a hair brush, and a nightgown. The shampoo was a different brand, much more expensive, but the same raspberry scent I used, and the nightgown was the right size. I was starting to feel like Goldilocks, only everything was right for me on the first try.
Thankful to have clean clothes to put on, I showered and dressed. Then I hesitated to go downstairs. I didn’t feel like being around other people—I rarely did.
Then I decided I had to go down. I didn’t want to be rude to the woman who’d invited me, and I was famished. I’d skipped both lunch and dinner the day before.
In the wide hall, a man was sitting in an arm chair. A thick, blond mustache dominated his face. He gave the impression of innocence despite his age, about forty. He looked up from his newspaper, smiled, and greeted me. “Good morning.”
“Good morning.” I passed him and descended the stairs.
Near the base of the stairs stood a grandfather clock that had to be a hundred years old. Several paintings hung on the walls, mostly landscapes. The sun hit at just the right angle to show the brush strokes—they weren’t lithographs; they were originals.
I continued toward the scent of sausage and eggs. As I rounded the corner, the same old woman, busy at work over the stove, came into view.
“Hello again, dear,” she said over her shoulder. “Breakfast will be ready in just a few minutes.”
I nodded. Then I added, “Can I help with anything?”
“Oh, I’m about done.” She turned to look at me, and her kind but somewhat dismissive tone changed. “But if you want, you can take those plates to the dining room.”
Thankful to have something to do, I picked up the plates, napkins, and silverware sitting to the side on the counter and carried them across the entryway. After setting eight places, I realized I would be meeting several more people this morning.
Great.
As I finished, a few men began entering and finding seats. I recognized the man from the hall a few minutes earlier, as his mustache curved in another smile, and also the driver, Anthony, who was deep in conversation with the man from the kitchen yesterday. When they saw me, they stopped talking—mid-sentence.
I went back to the kitchen to see if I could help the woman with anything else.
When we returned with platters of food, five of the chairs were filled, and Alec was just entering. He moved to stand by the chair at the head of the table. He was watching me.
I managed not to spill the eggs as I set them down. My hands didn’t seem to want to work right; between the kitchen and the dining room, they’d forgotten how to grip.
“Thank you, ladies,” Alec said.
The woman took a seat at the middle of the table, and Alec held out the chair next to it. I waited for him to take his seat.
Then he motioned for me to sit in the chair he was holding.
Right, he was being polite. I wasn’t used to that anymore. I sat.
Alec took the chair at the head of the table, to my left. As soon as he was seated, everyone began reaching for bowls and platters. Conversation burst into life, mostly from the two men I hadn’t seen before. The woman was looking around me to Alec. Her wrinkles curved up slightly.
I took a piece of toast when the woman offered it and nibbled at the corners.
“How are you this morning?”
I looked up and realized Alec was talking to me.
“Fine,” I said. His careful tone was almost frustrating somehow, maybe because I wasn’t used to people talking to me like that, carefully, as if nervous to upset me.
Alec reached for his glass of orange juice and barely sipped.
He set his glass down and faced me again. “What would you like for breakfast?”
I realized I was watching him, and looked away at the platters covering the table. I reached for the bowl of scrambled eggs.
He was faster. He took the bowl, scooped some onto my plate, and then offered a biscuit and placed the dish of apple butter within reach. Then he served himself.
He ate little.
I ate some, just the stuff I could stab with the fork. I left the rest.
At least the food was good. The woman was a great cook, and she’d made several of my favorite things.
I didn’t look at the others at the table too much, but studied them peripherally and listened. All the men, except the one with the mustache, gave me the same impression of “knowing” that Anthony had yesterday, with a kind of hardness in their eyes even when they smiled.
“Nah, man. The 49ers. I’m telling you,” the thick one was saying—although all of them had a strong build, this one was even bigger.
“I’m taking you on this one,” his friend said.
The thick one smirked.
The one with the mustache, who was sitting across from me, had his newspaper folded on the table next to him. “What’ve you got, six months ’til the next season starts? Are you going through withdrawal already?”
“It’s more interesting than the news,” one of the others retorted.
The grin was still curving his mustache.
“At least he reads.” Anthony kept eating, as if he hadn’t said anything.
“I read.”
Anthony didn’t respond. The man with the mustache grinned wider.
The old woman smiled gently throughout the meal. She actively joined in the conversation, once it moved away from sports. Alec didn’t participate but seemed to listen. He was definitely paying attention to something. The one from the kitchen yesterday, the one with the Italian complexion, did not speak and seemed to be focused on the opposite end of the table, my end of the table. Something in the way he held his shoulders and the stiffness of his movement made me think he wasn’t happy.
Alec’s chin tilted slightly. The man with the Italian complexion started eating.
The conversation didn’t slow, not until the men finished eating, three of them within seconds of each other. They took their plates to the kitchen and then congregated just outside the dining room.
The one with the mustache cleared his plate and then left through the front door. The only two men remaining were Alec and the unhappy one. Alec stayed seated while the other one rose, slowly.
“Ten minutes,” the man with the Italian complexion said over his shoulder, and the others disappeared down a hall.
“I’ll call you when I leave,” Alec said. When the other one didn’t go, Alec’s voice dropped out of polite. “Shortly.”
“Yes, sir.” He left down the same hall as the others.
Alec stood. “Thank you, Hanna.”
“You’re welcome, dear.”
“Would you mind keeping Adriane company today?”
He was leaving? He expected me to sit here all day?
I stood. “I need to talk to you.”
“I’m sure you have several questions,” he said. “But I must beg to put them off until later. I would like to ask that you not call anyone, not even to call off sick.”
Hanna grabbed a couple plates and walked into the kitchen.
“What do you expect me to do?” I asked.
“I expect nothing of you.” His expression was level, like bathwater that had been left to cool. “All I ask is that you stay here, and we’ll talk later. You’re safe here.”
I worked to keep the frustration out of my voice, not entirely succeeding. “Alec—”
“We’ll talk later. I promise.” He walked away toward the front door. Then he paused to look back at me. “Hanna has my number if you need anything.” He stepped out and closed the door behind himself.