“Because he doesn’t want him in the house after the shit he pulled last time,” said Reed, without bothering to translate.
She wanted to ask what he’d done, but talking about Thomas felt like a wound—too raw to poke at.
Instead, she signed,He won’t be coming back.
Reed sank back into the chair with a grim smile. “Are you sure about that? I didn’t think I’d be back, after all the shit that went down, but here I am, anyway.”
Upstairs, someone hammered on the front door. The sound thundered all through the house, setting the dogs to barking.
“I’ll bet you anything that’s him right now,” said Reed, pulling on his headset.
Hudson’s eyes met Vivienne’s across the lamp lit dark. “I’ll give him this,” he said drolly, “his timing is impeccable.”
•••
Thomas didn’t spare a glance toward Vivienne as he shoved his way into the Turners’ foyer. Pushing the dogs gently but firmly off him, he moved into the sitting room just off the hall. The Turner house was a virtual colossus, the coffered ceilings soaring well over twelve feet, but still Thomas seemed to fill and fill the space, until he was all that was left. Vivienne wasn’t sure if he’d always overwhelmed a room this way, or if it was only her perception. If maybe he’d consumed her so thoroughly that everything else fell away.
She willed him to look at her.
He didn’t.
He peered out the wide bay windows out front, triple-checking the latches and then wrenching shut the curtains.
“Come on in,” said Hudson ruefully. “Make yourself at home.”
“Don’t open the door for anyone,” said Thomas, checking another latch.
“Oh, I won’t,” Hudson reassured him. “I’m already regretting the last two people I let inside.”
“I mean it, Turner.”
“Jesus, Walsh. I hear you—I won’t let anyone in.” He butted his hip against an end table, his face lit from beneath by the Tiffany glass lamplight. “Are you going to tell us what’s happening?”
Thomas answered his question with another. “Are your parents home?”
“No,” said Hudson. “Why?”
Thomas ducked into the next room—an office, by the looks of it, sparse and neat. Diligently, he repeated his process. Latch. Curtain. Next. Vivienne and Hudson tailed after him, standing shoulder to shoulder between the double French doors.
Another curtain snapped shut. “Is Connolly here?”
“He’s downstairs,” said Hudson. “He didn’t want to come up. You’re not his favorite person right now.”
“He’s not mine, either,” Thomas assured him. He turned to face Hudson. “Keep him here.”
“How come?”
“There’s people.” Another curtain snapped shut. “They might be looking for him.”
Hudson’s eye’s tightened in suspicion. “What kind of people?”
“Badpeople,” bit out Thomas, his patience frayed. “I think they’re affiliated with the House of Hades.”
“That loser club?” asked Hudson. “From the internet?”
“These guys were different,” Thomas said.
“Different how?”
