Wide entrance hall. Hardwood floors gleaming. Console table with fresh flowers. Artwork on the walls—tasteful, expensive.
The space felt lived in, but curated.
I turned right through the first doorway.
The room opened into something between study and sitting room. Bookshelves. Desk near the window. Two leather chairs facing each other.
And standing near a sidebar, pouring coffee from a silver kettle, was a man in a perfectly tailored suit.
He looked up.
Silver hair. Late fifties, maybe early sixties. Lean build, suggesting discipline. Movements precise, controlled.
But his eyes told me everything.
Warrior's eyes. Clear, assessing. The eyes of someone who'd shed blood and made peace with it.
He set the kettle down and crossed the room, extending his hand.
"Ellsworth."
I shook it. Firm grip. No posturing.
"Kane."
"Welcome to the Sanctuary." He gestured toward the coffee. "I assumed you might appreciate some after your flight. Perhaps something to eat?"
I could always eat. But curiosity outweighed hunger.
"How long have you worked here?"
Ellsworth's mouth curved. "Not long."
"So, this is new?"
He tilted his head. "There are questions one should ask, Mr. Black, and questions best left lying in the grass where one found them."
Despite everything, I liked him immediately.
"Yeah," I said. "I'd like something to eat."
"Of course?—"
"Can I make it?" The words came out before I'd thought them through. "Would that be okay?"
Ellsworth's eyebrow rose.
"It hasn't been done yet. Mr. Ward might burn a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. But yes, the kitchen is fully stocked."
He led me down another hallway into a kitchen that belonged in a magazine.
Marble countertops. Professional appliances. Copper pots hanging from a rack. Everything gleaming, waiting.
I didn't know why I'd asked to cook.
Just like I didn't know how I'd slept through the flight.
Maybe seeing Connor. Maybe knowing I wasn't completely alone.
