Unbearable, unmannered, smug littlejerk.I put my other hand on the banister and begin my shuffling descent.
“I hate you, I hate you, I hate you,” I sing.
A hums floats through the darkness. I pause, squinting in the direction of the sound. Is he … harmonizing with me?
I shake my head, too amused to remember my impending cardiac arrest. At least whatever’s wrong with him is funny.
The temperature dips the farther we descend. I clutch the railing, trying not to wince each time a metal step whines beneath my weight.
After an eternity, the stairs flatten into a long hallway pulled straight out of the eighties. Faux wood paneling runs along one side, rounded doorways on the other. The long yellow bulbs lining the center of the ceiling emit a low buzz when Jesse flips the light switch. The tubes are scorched at the ends, flickering with the last of their life force.
I clutch my backpack a little closer and remind myself that if Jesse wanted to kill me, he wouldn’t do it on his own property.
“What are these rooms for?” I nod at the doors.
“Storage, mostly. You could probably nick a lipstick or something if you want. We have stacks of the stuff.”
Aside from the fact that I’m not eager to steal from the town mortician, “Why does he have stacks of lipstick?” I pause. “What does a mortician do, exactly?”
“The internet is free, Mansour.”
Jesse turns to a door as nondescript as the other six we’ve passed. I hold my breath as he twists the handle, leading us into the belly of …
An office.
“Oh.”
Jesse glances over his shoulder, arching a brow. “Something wrong?”
Since I’d prefer to cartwheel into an open flame than admit to Jesse I’d been imagining walking into a room of dead bodies, I merely lift my chin and follow him inside.
Compared to the rest of the Talbot house, the office is shockingly modern. A mahogany desk the size of three pianos consumes most of the room. Rows upon rows of polished wooden shelves line the walls behind it. A rolling drink cart in the corner holds dozens of expensive glass bottles, but only one tumbler.
A leather-bound book lies open on the desk. I inch closer, peering at what appears to be the anatomic image of a girl’s spleen.
Jesse rounds the desk, dropping onto the plush leather chair. He adjusts one of the two giant monitors stationed in front of the keyboard. “This is my dad’s study.”
“Are we allowed to be in here?”
It’s an absurd question, since the answer isobviously not,and Jesse does me the favor of ignoring it. “I’ve been doing some research,” he says instead.
He stands, dragging the chair in front of his dad’s desk to the other side. When I hesitate, he makes a show of dusting it off with his sleeve. “A throne for Her Majesty.”
“Has anyone ever told you to pursue a career in comedy?” I ask, poking his arm away from the chair and perching on the edge.
“Not yet.”
“Take that as a sign.”
Jesse grins, as he always does whenever I say something especially mean. He seems to thrive on my bad attitude. “Noted.”
With a swipe of the mouse, the monitors flicker on. The glow washes the shelves behind us blue.
Dozens of tabs open on the screen. More than I can count. It’s a miracle his server hasn’t completely crashed.
“I had to switch languages and click on some questionable links, but I finally found a thread about your family in El Agamy. I followed it down a rabbit hole that may or may not have been totally legal,” Jesse says. “Have you heard of the Egyptian House of Archives?”
My brows furrow. “No.” It comes out vaguely waspish. I hate it when someone asks me something about Masr and I can’t answer. It makes me feel like a fraud.
