“Then he’ll speak again, I suppose.” Veda shrugs. “I’m not a child therapist.”
“Be that as it may, from the moment you spoke, Antaris paid attention. You are the first adult outside of our family to gain his attention and response without prompting. Ineedhim to speak again. No proper school will take him as he is now.”
“I can’tmakehim talk.”
“Perhaps not.” Simran’s jaw is tight as she stands and crosses the room to the table to pick up her purse. After producing a collection of folded papers, she hands them to Veda. “This contract includes payment information, guidelines, and an ideal time frame. There is also a stipulation for time bonuses, should you get him speaking before August. All you need to do is sign.”
It’s not that simple.
When Simran realizes Veda isn’t accepting the contract, she places it on the desk. “It appears you have already made a choice. Had you planned to accept my terms, this conversation would have gone differently.”
“It would have.”
Confirmation of Veda’s decision deflates her. She sits back down, suddenly less rigid. “Are you going to tell me why you denied my request?”
“Nois a complete sentence.” Veda stands and dusts her jeans. “But since you’re curious, I manage the grounds. Spring and summer are my busiest times of year. I won’t have the time to tutor anyone.”
Confusion flashes across Simran’s face, but she remains composed. “I have been told you tutor Investigator Sallant’s son.”
The extent of Peter’s association with Simran is a curious juxtaposition. Veda wants to jump to a hundred conclusions. Instead, she holds her judgment until they can talk. She owes him that much. “I don’t tutor August, per se. He occasionally stays after school, plays in the dirt, chases the school’s livestock. It’s hardly educational. Peter should’ve known better. Wait, who is he to you? You’ve made it clear you don’t associate with Seers.”
“I do not, but his mother was my housekeeper before starting Weston Academy. Peter was my son’s playmate until my son left for boarding school at twelve. From afar, I watched Peter grow into a respectable man. Sight notwithstanding.”
“Ah, well, I hope you find what you’re looking for.” Veda extends her hand to shake, sighing when it’s rejected. “My denial isn’t personal.”
Simran’s facade collapses, and something honest rises. “I am asking for one session.”
“It’s best that you . . .”
Movement catches Veda’s eye through the window. Antaris is at the top step of the deck, dubious in the face of Peter’s welcoming smile and warm gestures. He turns, almost searching. Their eyes meet through the glass. Veda’s list of excuses is long, but self-awareness lingers. In time, her curiosity will grow louder, resolute and insistent that this melancholic child needs help.Her help.Rationalizing that it’s best she answer that call just this once, she looks back at Simran.
“Fine. One session.”
Two
Hiram isn’t impulsive.
He has never been the sort to make any major purchase without careful analysis and consideration of all consequences.
Until now.
The house is a five-bedroom blank slate of trendy renovated features: neutral colors, boring finishes, and an open concept on Lake Arnez. While stripped of character and identity, it’s move-in ready, with more than enough space for two people. Hiram’s steps echo on the oak floors as he examines the cleaners’ work. It’s leagues better than his sterile Los Angeles apartment and more spacious than the downtown hotel suite they’re in now. Brick and wood, held together by nails and plaster, constructed into a dwelling. Not a home, but it’s his job to make it one. Now he needs to figure out how.
Hiram is a loner who knows exactly how to get what he wants, but everything has changed. He’s spent the last six weeks overthinking and overwhelmed as he navigates the silence of his traumatized son. He exists on a precipice. One miscalculation away from disaster. One wrong move from failing a child he doesn’t know. Hiram needs to regain control, and the first step is accepting he might fail. He’s still working on that. The second step? Establishing stability. Taking a hiatus from his law career, navigating reconciliation with the parents he abandoned at eighteen, and dropping his life in Los Angeles to buy a house inhis hometown is a good enough start. He hopes. If not, it’s too late to turn back.
As soon as he finishes his inspection, the home’s built-in talisman alerts him of the moving crew’s arrival. Time blurs as they unload boxes, set up beds, install appliances, and place furniture. Once they leave, he opens the windows for the breeze to dilute the smell of cleaning products and freshen the stale air. There are six hours before he needs to be at his parents’ house to pick up his son, per their visitation agreement. It’s enough time to set up the necessities and work up a sweat.
On the back porch, he cools down, noting that this isanotherblank that needs work, but the views of the cloudy skies and crystal-blue waters of Lake Arnez urge him to pause planning. Willows and cypress trees dot the sloping lawn until the grass transitions to the rocky shore. The wooden pier and shed look recently built, but the cobblestone path connecting them is old. The quiet here is a silence without a need for possibilities.
Peace is disrupted by a hazy orange glow encasing his property, alerting him to someone else’s arrival. He isn’t expecting visitors. Hiram leaves the back porch to check the peephole. An odd pair of men stand on the front stoop, looking around and muttering words Hiram can’t hear. One is dressed like a lumberjack—short and burly, with pale skin, curly red hair, a beard, and far too much plaid. The other is a tall man with dark eyes and wavy black hair, dressed in jeans, a white shirt, and a suit jacket. When Hiram opens the door, they put on professional expressions and flash silver Federal Crime Division badges adorned with tiger’s-eye amulets.
“Mr. Ellis? I’m Investigator Francisco Padillo, and this is Investigator Gabriel Sallant.” The taller man’s Northeastern accent is strong. “We’re with the FCD. Do you have a moment to speak with us?”
Their badges glow gold at their touch, confirmation they are who they claim to be. Investigators are glorified federal enforcers who handle cold cases, ritual and serial crimes, and any cases involving Seer or interstate activity. They don’t usually make house calls, whichsparks Hiram’s curiosity as to why they’re here. With a family of more attorneys, business owners, and politicians than he can count, Hiram knows better than to let them in, but he’s also aware of the shit he can start by not complying.
“What is this about?” He folds his arms with practiced ease.
Gabriel pulls out a stone no bigger than the palm of his hand. “This messenger stone was sent to me months ago. I thought it was a mistake until I received Grace Fowler’s case file.”
