“He needs to talk to you,” Mirabelle announced as if she’d rehearsed where to place the punchy emphasis.
It came down to need.
I don’t care what he needs.
Amelia bit her tongue, though she wasn’t trying to spare feelings, and followed Mirabelle downstairs.
The black dress she wore was soft and exquisite, and Mirabelle had even rinsed off Amelia’s shoes. They squelched with each step through the belly of the mansion, and Amelia peered into the rooms they passed—palatial spaces with giant furniture stuffed to the seams and airy fabrics framing tall windows.
A fountain babbled in the outside courtyard where flowering vines enrobed stone-work lattice. The terra cotta staircase emptied to an expansive terrace below. Just beyond a glittering pool, globes of light dotted the perimeter of a sitting area. Mirabelle motioned to a silhouette at the table.
“He’s over there.”
Amelia’s stomach flipped with a woozy rush, something like racing down a drop-off hill, and her palms were clammy despite the mild breeze. Weighed down with fear in one foot and defiance in the other, she didn’t budge.
“Hear him out,” Mirabelle urged. “He’s not as bad as you think.”
Easy for her to say. Mirabelle couldn’t see what was right in front of her. Blood affinity blinded, but she tied a blindfold tight for good measure. With nothing more to say, Mirabelle left, and Amelia took a moment to gain her bearings.
The Moriarty mansion perched on a craggy bluff that overlooked black desert, both stunning and frightening in its emptiness. In the valley below, a road cut through like a string of Christmas lights that glittered red and white and wove in a tangle.
I could run. Just follow the road. That would be foolish. She wouldn’t make it that far or anywhere at all.
Unlike the trees back home, the palm leaves didn’t whisper with the wind but rattled like dry bones. No one built stucco houses with tiled roofs in Portland because the desert existed in only a handful of states, and Oregon sure as hell wasn’t one of them. Far from home, Amelia had no choice but to face the shadow in the dark.
Remember who you are.
She was the daughter of Callum Havick, who had to be close to finding her. He had his flaws like anyone else, but he was smart, and he was brave, and maybe she’d inherited the best parts of him or could pretend at least.
Amelia stood tall and drank in the night’s crisp air that smelled sweet and clean. A halo of light enveloped the seating area where crickets sang and moths flittered.
Leaned over with his forearms on his knees, Emory stared at the space between his feet. A cigarette’s cherry ember glowed as the filter met his lips.
Amelia approached with loathing that soaked to the bone. The presentation of it all would make her sick. Did he like her trotted out with bare thighs in a black dress? Apparently so.
The cigarette paper sizzled as Emory rendered it to ash with a long drag. Head tilted skyward, he appraised her with smoke spilling from his mouth.
Cleaned of gore and with her hair air-dried in glossy waves, she surely looked different, but so did he. A vision of fury earlier, Emory appeared at ease now. He gestured to an empty seat at the table and watched with guarded intrigue as Amelia sat.
“You smoke?” he asked and offered her the lit cigarette.
She shook her head as the chair’s cold metal met the back of her thighs.
“Me neither,” Emory said and studied the horizon.
The paltry light did little to gentle sharp bones, brooding eyes, and a five o’clock shadow that further accentuated his jawline. He still commanded the space around him, a quality Amelia assumed was immutable, and his imposing intensity hadn’t waned. Unwavering and dangerous, it roiled beneath a calm surface.
“Where are we?” she asked.
“Nevada.”
So far from home, Amelia shivered with a chill.No one will look for me here.
Emory took one last drag and dropped the cigarette to the ground where he squashed it with his boot heel. He opened his mouth to speak, but the words didn’t make it past his lips.
“Where’s my mother?” Amelia demanded and drew her shoulders back.Remember who you are.
Emory’s gaze roved her body. “No idea.”
