Total pages in book: 130
Estimated words: 131651 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 658(@200wpm)___ 527(@250wpm)___ 439(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 131651 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 658(@200wpm)___ 527(@250wpm)___ 439(@300wpm)
“I can’t believe I got to see it in real life. This is bonkers.”
“Save it,” I say. “You weren’t even supposed to be here today. If Mom didn’t have an appointment and it wasn’t such short notice, I would’ve dropped you off.” I look at the lawyer. “You just needed me for due diligence, Miss Wilkes? A little extra security for the vault?”
The lawyer looks down.
“Not exactly.” She hands me another letter. “This should suffice to explain everything.”
Shit.
Even though I knew this was coming, I want to set it on fire.
Whatever’s in there can’t be good.
Leonidas Blackthorn doesn’t have a great track record with letters from beyond the grave. Just ask the rest of the family.
The paper feels weirdly heavy as I pinch it. The old man never did half measures. From the feel alone, it’s too thick to be a simple termination letter.
Unless it has cash in it, too.
But that’s not his style.
He’d be more likely to set up a bank transfer. Or a trust, if I were one of his kids or nieces or whatever the hell Cleo was to him. And even if he was that generous, I’m far too old for that. If he left me any bonuses, they’d be direct payments.
“The terms are rather clear, I think,” Wilkes says calmly. “Of course, if you have any questions, I’d be more than happy to answer. Just let me know.”
Terms.
This vault suddenly feels as claustrophobic as a submarine.
So this isn’t severance pay, and the fact that she’s handing out these letters doesn’t fill me with optimism.
I huff out a long breath.
There’s always been a draft in this basement, especially this room, making it easier to detect body heat. Never bothered me when I worked here alone, keeping up with the security, but it sure as hell does now.
“Kit, let’s go outside.”
My daughter makes a small sound of disappointment.
Wilkes gives her a warmer smile than any I’ve seen on her so far. “He’s right, you know. There are no lasers here,” she says. “We’ve seen the exciting part.”
“The egg was beautiful,” Kit says.
“It is exciting,” she agrees. “However, it’s also legally the property of Miss Blackthorn, so we can’t touch it again.”
By ‘we,’ she definitely means Kit. I appreciate the way she’s handling the situation, even if I don’t have time for the niceties.
Goddamn unbelievable.
“Come on.” I take Kit’s hand in mine and lead her back up the stairs. Wilkes locks up the vault behind us, and the outer door clicks shut with a little hiss. I pause just long enough to make sure all the security measures are back in place.
Old habits.
Once we’re back on the landing by the basement stairs, I see Cleo curled up in a chair by a window alcove.
For a second, my brain flashes back to when she was a kid, curled up in the same way with her sketch pad, before she grew into that body.
Back then, it was the one time I never had to worry about chasing her down. When she was lost in her own world, she wasn’t a headache, safely sealed in her own imagination.
Then the world snaps back into place, and the white streak Cleo’s dyed in her hair whips me into the present.
She’s not the same girl she was then, and I’m not her keeper. Also, it’s not some obscure art book or a sketch pad in her hands, but a letter.
She’s reading it with a drawn face and wide eyes bristling with tears.
No need to intrude on her privacy.
Wilkes gestures back to the library. “Would you like a tour, Miss Verity?”
Kit barely notices as I slip out the side door. No one ever calls her Miss Verity, and I guess she loves it.
Again, Wilkes’ instincts are flawless. It’s easy to see why Mr. Blackthorn left her in charge of his estate.
The envelope has the weight of an encyclopedia in my hand as I step into the courtyard. I worked here for over a decade, but this feels like a whole new place today, dreary under the wind and slate-grey skies.
Like it or not, I’ll have my answers soon.
That’s what I wanted anyway.
The last year has been damnably uncertain for too long.
I rip it open, shearing off the top. It takes me less than a minute to read it.
Then I read it again and my gut sinks to my ankles.
Mother-fuck!
Snarling, I tear the letter in half, glaring up at the sky.
“What did I do? What fucking shit did I do to deserve this?”
No answer.
I just hear a familiar, low chuckle in my own mind. The same laugh I’d hear from the old man when he’d read by the fire, lost in some old book.
It’s worse than I imagined—and this nail-eating assignment starts today.
So much for any hope that he’d tie things up neatly and send me on my merry way.