“I haven’t.”
“It’s an estuary—not all that deep. Sixty, sixty-five feet down at most. But you go out to the eastern limits? The water goes down as far as three hundred feet in places. You drop something overboard, who’s to say you’ll ever find it? I like that sort of vastness. I’m sure you know the feeling.”
Thomas frowned, not following. “Sir?”
“No need to play at innocence.” Philip reached out and cuffed him on the shoulder. “I told you, I did my research. I didn’t stumble upon your resume by accident, you know. I’ve got a former colleague whose son went to the same school as you.”
This was news to Thomas. He felt suddenly cold, in spite of the heat. “Oh.”
If Philip noticed his discomfort, he didn’t show it. “I’m told some of the young men in your fraternity dabbled in matters of the occult. You ever take part in anything like that?”
“No,” said Thomas, without expanding. Then, eager to change the subject, “Sorry, I guess I just didn’t see Miss Farrow as the fishing type.”
Philip’s smile flickered. “She’s a bit coddled,” he said, “isn’t she? Her mother’s doing, I’m sorry to say. That’s why we do it. A day at sea here and there is good for the soul. Take the weekend, Walsh. Go home and see your family. You’ve earned it.”
•••
Thomas spent the remainder of his day alone. Philip had gone to the city for work. Amelia to her spin class and then lunch with friends. Vivienne remained shut up in her room, with nothing on the schedule. No social obligations. No studio time. No classes. Thomas came back from his run to find the house bone-chillingly quiet.
Inside his head, his thoughts rattled around without ever landing. He’d sprinted nearly the entire way, and he still hadn’t been able to escape the unease chasing after him. It wasn’t that he’d thought it was some strange serendipity that he’d landed this job without ever applying—he knew Philip Farrow had intentionally sought him out.
It was only that he’d assumed it was due to his proficiency in sign language.
He hadn’t thought hisschoolingheld any weight at all.
He wasn’t sure how it factored in—his connection to the Priory.
Like so many other students in need of financial aid, he’d taken a scholarship-based placement test to see where he’d be best suited. It had been his school counselor’s idea. Since his father’s passing, he’d been going through the motions—so wrapped up in what was going on at home, he stopped focusing on what was happening at school. His grades floundered. He was kicked off the lacrosse team. He started looking for outlets to burn off his anger—spent his lunch block picking fights, spent his Saturdays in detention.
Until his counselor set a financial aid application in front of him, he hadn’t given any thought at all to what came after.
The day the letter arrived from the Grants and Scholarships Committee, he’d been outside mowing the lawn. He’d tinkered with the cut deck as Tessa tore into the wax-sealed envelope, his heart in his throat and his expectations low.
“Mr. Thomas Walsh,”Tessa read.“Congratulations on a job well done. You are a recipient of our needs-based placement fellowship …”
He hardly remembered the rest. Only the sound of his sister shouting in his ear, the faint flicker of possibility deep inside his chest.
He didn’t like to think about it—how quickly that possibility had died. He did his best not to think at all as he showered and changed, a stitch in his side. Sprawling across his bed, he flung out his arms and clicked on the television, resigned to another day of nothing.
The screen stayed dark.
It took several minutes of tinkering to locate the source of the issue. Behind the entertainment center the wires had been cut clean through as though by garden shears. Anger settled into a hard knot inside his chest.
“Brat,” he muttered, shoving the console back into place.
Restless—looking for a fight—he headed out into the living room. The dogs were already there, dozing on the couch. Molly picked up her head at the sight of him, ears pricked and gaze wary.
“Boo,” he said.
That sent them into immediate, scrabbling flight. Flopping onto the newly vacant cushions, he found the remote and turned on the television, cranking the volume as high as it could go. It thundered through the quiet of the house, straining the surround sound.
“Three,” he whispered. He was being an idiot, baiting her this way.
“Two.” But something had to give, and it wouldn’t be him.
“One.” A door slammed upstairs. The subsequent gut punch he felt wasn’t entirely due to anger, and that infuriated him the most.
Vivienne appeared seconds later, swallowed up in a sky-blue sweatshirt that fell nearly to her knees. The dogs flanked her on either side, as though they’d personally gone to retrieve her. He cast her a cursory sideways glance and lowered the volume.
