Since the logistics of taking a knife to this man’s throat and leaving his entrails strung out on the lawn would stir up local law enforcement, faking a heart attack with poison in his coffee will have to do. If only I could make my heart rate slow to the speed of something more sedate than, say, a hummingbird, that’d be awesome.
Once everything is assembled on the tray, I pick it up and head toward the hallway entrance. Erik steps in front of me.
“Your hands are shaking so hard the silverware is rattling together. Let me do this.”
I summon a weak glare, and he holds up his hand, backing off. I start walking again, hyperaware that the clinking on the tray matches my pulse. I silently will my nerves to sit the fuck down and at least manage to stop the knives and forks from sounding like maracas. I pause outside the grossly over-modern dining room to take a few steadying breaths.
You can do this.
Taking another deep breath and gathering every ounce of courage I have, I step into the dining room.
New Orleans is trim, and his personal style can be best described asprecise. He’s sitting at the end of a stainless-steel table that looks like something you could perform an autopsy on, reading an honest-to-God newspaper with a half-drunk cup of coffee in front of him, completely unaware of my presence.
I put one foot in front of the other until I finally reach his side. Just as I set down his plate of precooked food, the doorbell goes off. My heart rate shoots through the roof, and I thread my hands behind my back to steady my trembling. I’m only moderately successful.
“Easy, Ant,” Erik’s soothing voice says across the comms. “I’m looking into it. He doesn’t have any visitors on his schedule.”
I stand frozen as I await intel from Erik. New Orleans’ new butler—one of ours—appears in the doorway.
“A Miss Ruthann Guillory for you, sir.”
Down goes his newspaper and up goes my fucking heart rate all over again. Oh God. He’s older and more haggard, but I remember his face. He smells of the same sharp, out-of-date aftershave as he did that night, and all I can remember is the fear. I was so small and confused. Until I wasn’t.
I remember when I realized what he intended to do. I hadn’t known people did that to little kids.
Which is why I’m here now.
“Ah yes. She mentioned she might stop in.”
Steady,Ant.Steady.
“Indeed, sir,” the butler says, selecting a teacup and saucer from the sideboard to place on the table. “I’ll have the cook double the brunch then?”
“Yes, that’s perfect. Thank you.”
As the butler leaves, a lovely woman enters the room and sits. New Orleans finally sees my presence.
“Well, what are you waiting for, boy? Pour the coffee. And it had better still be hot.”
The problem is I don’t want to damn this unknown woman to hell with him.
“She’s not affiliated with his extracurricular business,” Erik says, his voice steady through the line.
“Oh, I make sure it hot for you,” I say, weirdly falling back into my old persona as gravity loses its hold on me. I look down, surprised my feet are still planted to the earth.
He tilts his head, looking at me funny. “Who are you? Are you new?”
“Yes. I new,” I say, the sound of his voice shaking me from my reverie. Wordlessly, I make a sudden about-face and practically run back to the kitchen. Dropping the tray on the counter with a clank, I put my head between my knees and do the breathing thing Hedy taught me. Fast-fast, slow. Fast-fast, slow.
Erik’s feet appear in my peripheral vision.
“You okay?”
I shake my head. “I freaked out. He looks the same. Smells the same. He didn’t recognize me, but everything isthe same.”
Sharp footsteps make their way down the hall from the dining room to the kitchen. Erik’s hand goes to the knife on his belt, and I hold up my hand.
“I’ve got him.”
