Total pages in book: 71
Estimated words: 77171 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 386(@200wpm)___ 309(@250wpm)___ 257(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 77171 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 386(@200wpm)___ 309(@250wpm)___ 257(@300wpm)
That’s Vexley House. Cold the way brisk weather isn’t. Our mother tried to make it warmer, but our father wouldn’t have it.
I slow my pace, let my breathing even out.
And still…
Her face surfaces again. Uninvited.
Those steady gray-blue eyes… The way she looked at me as if she was unimpressed.
I’m not used to that.
I flex my hand as I move deeper into the hall, involuntarily fidgeting with the ring on my right hand.
It looks like iron.
That’s the first mistake people make.
It’s actually black platinum, dark and uneven along the edges to look like it’s been worn down over the years. The surface isn’t polished. It doesn’t catch the light the way expensive things are supposed to. It absorbs it. Kills it.
That’s kind of the idea.
Most men would take one look at it and think it’s crude and cheap. Decayed, even.
They’d be wrong.
Nothing about the Vexleys is cheap enough to rot. Nothing on the outside, that is.
It doesn’t sit lightly on my hand. It settles in, as if it’s been part of me since I was born.
The face of the ring is flat, the texture rough enough to drag against the skin if I turn it too quickly. But the key carved into it…
That’s different.
It’s defined by clear lines. Untouched by the same wear that marks the rest of the ring. It stands out against the dark surface.
The head forms a narrow shape, almost a V if you look at it the right way. The shaft runs straight and unbroken, ending in teeth that don’t match on either side, like it was made to open something specific. A rusted old lock, maybe. The kind that’s been left out in the weather long enough that most would assume it’s useless.
I turn the ring once with my thumb. The edge of the engraving presses into my skin.
It’s built to last.
Like everything my father ever put his name on.
The corridor stretches ahead. My father’s oil portrait stares down at me. I look like him—same jawline, same dark hair, same build. Except for his eyes. His are so brown they almost look black. They fit him. Not even a hint of a hint of flexibility. Not a bit of doubt. He looks like he’s decided everything that matters.
I pass beneath his gaze without slowing.
He would dismiss a woman like Delaney Cross.
Or erase her. Rather, he’d demand that I erase her.
I reach the library entrance and stop as I read the words carved into the stone above the doorway.
Mercy is the first weakness.
Above them, centered, is the emblem. The iron key. The same one on the ring I wear. The ring my father and my brothers wear.
I stand there for a moment longer than necessary. The phrase usually steadies things, but tonight it doesn’t quite land the same.
I push the door open.
My younger brother Nathaniel is already inside. He stands near the window, one hand in his pocket, the other resting lightly against the back of a chair. He turns as I enter.
“Hey, Sam.”
“Hey, Nate.” I close the door behind me.
“Nice work,” he says. “I’ve already heard from Preston Darnell’s people. They’re caving.”
I don’t respond. I don’t need to. There was never any question.
For another moment, neither of us speaks.
Then—
“I met a woman at the club,” I say, keeping my tone flat.
Nathaniel’s gaze sharpens, but only slightly. “Nothing unusual about that.”
“She was watching.”
“Who?”
“Everyone.”
He pauses. “And you.”
Not a question.
I don’t answer right away.
“She didn’t belong there,” I say instead.
Nathaniel shifts his weight. “But she stayed?”
“Yes.” Another pause. “She had a way about her. She looked at me differently than most do.”
“And that bothered you?”
“No.” I press my thumb into the face of the ring. The edge bites slightly into the skin.
Nathaniel drops his gaze to my hands.
He notices.
He always notices. Even when we were kids, nothing got past him. He’s been observant since before he could walk. That’s what makes him a good lawyer. A good brain to my brawn.
“You know,” he says, “that kind of woman rarely appears by accident.”
“You think?”
“I think she chose to be there.” A slight tilt of his head. “Which is more interesting.”
I don’t respond.
“Someone’s been asking questions,” he says.
“About what?”
“An old name.”
I lift my eyebrows.
“Victor Halstead.”
My hand tightens before I can stop it. The ring presses harder into my finger.
Something shifts in my chest. For a moment, the room seems to narrow. Not many names affect me like that one does.
God, we were young. So young. Cain wasn’t even eighteen yet.
“What kind of questions?” I ask.
“Enough to notice,” he says. “Not enough to be obvious.”
“Who’s asking?”
“That’s what I’m working on.”
I nod.
“Could be nothing,” he adds.
“It isn’t.”
Nathaniel draws in a breath. “No,” he agrees. “It probably isn’t.” He steps away from the window. “If I find anything concrete, you’ll be the first to know.”
I nod. We all knew that ghost from our past wouldn’t stay buried forever.