But this wasn’t a date. It was two friends grabbing a meal together.
Helia:Only if you take me to Guichos. They have the best al pastor tacos. It’s a food truck, but they set up a tent with a heater, and you can bring your own beer
He chuckled. Leave it to Helia to ask to be taken to a food truck for tacos and beer.
Monk:Deal. I’ll pick you up at five
Helia:I’ll walk over. I have a ton of paperwork to do, I’ll want to stretch my legs
Monk:Fine, but call or text if you change your mind and I’ll come get you
Helia:Be kind to yourself today
Five simple words that pulled the breath from his lungs. A reminder he needed to hear.
Monk:I will…and thank you
She ended the conversation with a heart emoji, and he shoved his phone into his jeans pocket as he rose. Another creak sounded from the second floor, and he cocked his head. When nothing else shifted, he let it go and grabbed his bag. He’d once known every little squeak and scrape of the castle, but seventeen years aged a building.
Heading to the south side of the castle, he paused at the bottom of the stairs leading to the second floor. Gripping his bag tighter than its weight called for, he took the first step. Without giving himself time to think, he climbed steadily to the third floor and walked to his old room, hoping Roger hadn’t renovated it to some other use.
He set his hand on the closed door, the thick wood plank with an aged bronze fixture cold beneath his touch. Nudging it open, he kept moving, as if it might keep the memories at bay. He didn’t harbor any illusions he’d outrun them, but maybe he could stay far enough ahead that only wisps and pieces filtered into his mind until he felt strong enough to face them head-on.
Striding into the room, he noted it hadn’t changed much since he’d left. The pictures on the curved plaster walls were now Italian landscapes rather than posters, and a tapestry graced the space behind the headboard. Roger had left the custom armoire but traded the bed out for a dark, gothic four-poster king one, and a thick Persian carpet with deep red and brown tones covered much of the wood floor.
Turning to his right, he entered the bathroom. Again, mostly untouched, though updated. Vaguely, he noted the marble floors and shower, the intricate tile work on the walls, the expensive fixtures. A far cry from the subway tiles and simple shower he’d had, but in a way, he was glad it wasn’t the same. Glad it wasn’t one more memory pulling him back to that time.
As the water slid down his body, some of his anxiety washed away with it. By the time he stepped out fifteen minutes later, he decided that the room was different enough that he could try sleeping there. And after shaving and dressing, the rest of the castle didn’t seem so daunting.
Leaving his bath kit on the counter and his bag on the bed, he made his way to the corridor that ran along the front section of the castle with views down into the courtyard. Worried that his bravado might fail him, he didn’t stop at any of the rooms. When he reached the north side of the castle, he jogged down to the second floor, passed through another hallway, then stepped into his father’s room.
Pausing in the doorway, he scanned the space. The cleaners had obviously been in since his father’s death, and the bed wasfreshly made. Through an open door, he glimpsed the bathroom counter and his father’s personal effects—his shaving cream, toothbrush, and a few other items—laid out in a neat row.
Crossing the room, he entered the enormous walk-in closet. The original castle had twenty-four bedrooms. By the time Monk left, Roger had converted seven of those into either bathrooms or closets. Now, unless he’d done more renovation, which wouldn’t surprise Monk as his father was a perennially dissatisfied sort of person, it hosted seventeen bedrooms, each with an en suite bath. And many with closets the size of an average living room.
Standing in one such closet, he took in the tailor-made suits lining one wall, the rack of Italian shoes, and the polished wood cabinets that held who-knew-what.
Turning in a slow circle, his skin vibrated with an awareness that meant only one thing. “Okay, Roger,” he said on an exhale. “What the hell will I find here?”
CHAPTER NINE
Drugs. In addition to a wardrobe worth the cost of an average house, Roger had a stash of drugs. Monk stared at the box filled with tiny plastic bags, each of those filled with a crystal-like substance. He’d found the container in a hidden compartment behind the shoe rack. Along with a gun, a pair of gold handcuffs—an impractical material if there ever was one—and a whip. He could understand why Roger hadn’t left the handcuffs down in the dungeon where all his “parties” took place, but the whip was an odd one. It didn’t appear to be valuable, and Roger wasn’t a sentimental man. Monk didn’t feel the need to pick it up and examine it, though.
Grabbing the gun, he slid the shoe rack back into place, an audible click securing the items back in their hidey-hole. Then pulling out his phone, he tapped a contact.
“Monk.” Mantis’s familiar voice soothed some of his anxiety.
“Yeah.”
“You need company?”
“I found a bunch of drugs in Roger’s room. I don’t know what it is so don’t want to dump it.”
“You made it into his room?”
Monk walked out. “And my old one.” And then, because he didn’t feel the need to hide anything, he added, “I’ve been sleeping in the tasting room, though.”
His brothers knew enough about the castle that Mantis would understand how much hehadn’texplored.
