Page 168

“I didn’t.” Once the car rolls to a stop in the driveway, I climb out and hand the urn off to Aunt Midge. “I’ll just be a minute.”

“This guy gives you trouble? Scream.”

“I will.” I wait for her to hobble inside the house before making my way toward the car. “If you’re looking for the yearbook, I lost it.”

“I understand. No need to trouble yourself. I just felt that, with the information you were so willing to give, I owe you this.” He holds the envelope out toward me. “For what it’s worth.”

Staring down at the package, I hesitate a moment, before snatching it out of his hands, anxious that he might change his mind.

“I heard about your mother, and I’m sorry for your loss.”

“Thank you. What is it you were looking for in the yearbook?”

“Proof.”

“Of what?”

“That your mother could’ve possibly come in contact with the devil himself.”

Frowning, I stare back at him with an even stronger need to know what’s inside.

I open the envelope and slide out the document contained within. Unfolding it reveals the intake form, which looks like it was written in my mother’s handwriting. Eyes scanning down the page, I find the field I’ve searched for my whole life. The one that reveals who my father really is. The one she intentionally left blank on my birth certificate.

Sickness churns in my stomach as I stare at the name scrawled across the page there.

Patrick Boyd.

Chapter 58

Lucian

I’ve come to the understanding that everything in life comes down to a rule of threes.

For me, the rules have always been simple:

Never give into temptation

Never show your cards

Don’t fall in love

With Isa, I broke all three. At least, I’m fairly certain I did. I’ve never actually felt this kind of love before, but I figure wanting to kill anything and everything that comes within close proximity of her must count for something.

And seeing Boyd approach her at the funeral home somehow whisked up an inexplicable rage inside me. As irrational as it may sound, I could’ve easily snapped my former father-in-law’s neck like a dandelion, for being so close to her.

I stroll up to the park bench, flicking away my half-smoked cigarette, and take a seat opposite the man at the other end. Staring out over the sea, I drink in a moment of peace before the shit-storm of questions begins.

“Thank you for reaching out to me, Mr. Blackthorne.”

“I didn’t. My associate reached out to you.”

“Yes, Mr. Rand?” He clears his throat, shifting on the seat as if he’s got a bad case of hemorrhoids. The guy reminds me of a cross between a true gumshoe and the lonely IT worker who masturbates to tentacle porn, decked out in his short sleeve plaid shirt and gray chinos.

“I’m a private investigator--”

“I already know who you are, and what you’re looking for.”

“And you agreed to this meeting?”