“You’re ridiculous.”
“I mean it.” He leaned in and gave me a quick kiss. “Ready?”
“I think so. I have just the place to go. Probably will only be tourists, so that might help.” We were out the door in another fifteen seconds, both offering our apologies to the three dogs, who stared at us like we were traitors.
BILL SPEIDEL’SUnderground Tour was a tourist staple, and a lot of fun, though it was years since I’d taken the tour. It hadn’t changed all that much. Based around Pioneer Square, the tour took people below the streets, down to where another city lay underneath, empty stores and pathways that had been operational during the years before Seattle was built up to a higher level.
Though I thought it a good idea, a chance to avoid locals, I stupidly hadn’t thought about my last time in Pioneer Square, and as we approached the totem pole and elaborate pergola, my heart began to hurt. Hurt to the point I longed for someone to call out to us, say something horrible just to distract me. The homeless were spread out around the space as always. The only thing missing was Bailey flitting among them, her horde of misfit dogs trailing after her.
There were a few looks as we walked from the hotel and Pioneer Square. No one called names or jeered. Nothing. Still, every step was an act of will. And with each look, Noah would squeeze my hand, giving me that much more of the courage I needed to keep moving forward. He did it again as I stared at the bricked, open space, knowing without needing to be told.
His voice was low and warm. Soothing. “You’ll see her soon. This will all change. I promise.”
I looked over at him, ready to scoff, but his expression stopped me. “You really think so?”
“Yeah. I have no doubt. I’m not sure how it will look, but I have a feeling something is going to come from Kayla’s investigator idea. You wait and see.”
And I believed him. He seemed so certain. “Are you sure you’re not trying to imitate that monk from yesterday? You got some beads to sell me or something?”
His grin widened. “Oh, I got something to sell you, all right.”
I couldn’t help but laugh. “That’s a little too close to how I got into this situation to begin with.”
He shrugged. “Old dog. Old tricks.”
“Shut up.” I motioned to the far side of the square. “Come on. Let’s go get tickets.”
THE FIRSTten minutes of the tour took place aboveground in a turn-of-the-century Victorian bar. The guides stood in front and filled in the forty or fifty people milling about on a history of the early years of Seattle, the political corruption, and how the lower level of the city came to be.
The whole thing was tongue in cheek, sarcastic, and a touch risqué.
I was right; it seemed the crowds were all tourists, and they ate up the tour guides’ antics, laughing and catcalling at all the right times. Noah joined right in, having never seen the tour, and genuinely played the role of tourist with everything he had.
I didn’t laugh. Not once.
My heart was pounding too loud and too hard. And I was too busy trying to think of an easy exit.
As the guides finished their spiel, they split the crowd into two groups, each taking one.
I hoped against hope. And was denied.
As seemed to be the case in everything lately.
At last, now that we were split up into a smaller group, our tour guide’s gaze met mine. His eyes widened in recognition, and he stuttered in his directions of what needed to happen for the tour. He looked away, his cheeks flushed.
Allan Morris.
God damn it.
My body moved without any input from me. It just followed the crowd as we began to make our way belowground.
Noah leaned close to me, having to bend more than usual due to the rickety staircase we were descending. “What’s going on? You didn’t laugh, and something is up with you and the tour guide, whatever his name was.”
“Allan.”
“Sure. Allan, whatever. What’s going on?”
I lowered my voice even further. “He was an old client of mine. I forgot he started working here.”
