The ex-soldier stretched his left arm and twisted, as if trying to slide the bones back in place. Another dry crunch, sending a fresh jolt of alarm through me. Probably an old injury.
The bear stopped and looked at me.
“Be polite,” the soldier told him. “Don’t worry. He just wants to say hi.”
“I don’t mind.” I stepped closer to the bear. The massive beast leaned over to me and smelled my hair.
“Can I pet him?”
The soldier looked at Sgt. Teddy. The bear made a low, short noise.
“He says you can.”
I reached over and carefully petted his big, shaggy neck.
“What’s his story?”
“Someone thought it would be a good idea to make very smart magic bears and use them in combat,” the ex-soldier said. “Problem is, once you make someone smart, they become self-aware and call you on your bullshit. Sgt. Teddy is a pacifist. The leash is just for show so people don’t freak out. Major is of the opinion that fighting in a war shouldn’t be forced on those who are morally opposed to it, human or bear.”
“But you’re still here,” I told the bear.
He snorted and looked at me with chocolate-brown eyes.
“We offered him a very nice private property up in Alaska,” the ex-soldier said. “But he doesn’t like it. He says he gets bored. He mostly hangs out with us, eats cereal that’s bad for him, and watches cartoons on Saturdays. And movies. He loves The Jungle Book.”
I waited for the familiar buzz of my magic that told me he was pulling my leg, but none came.
Sgt. Teddy rose on his hind legs, blocking out the sun, and put his shaggy front paws around me. My face pressed into the fur. I hugged him back. We stood for a moment, then the Kodiak dropped down and went back on his walk.
I looked at the ex-soldier.
“He must’ve felt you needed a hug,” he said. “He stays in the HQ most of the time, so you can come and visit him.”
“I will,” I told him.
The ex-soldier nodded and followed the bear.
I punched my code into the lock. I had been hugged by a giant, super-intelligent bear. I could do this. I just had to walk in, call for a family meeting, and tell them that Victoria Tremaine, my evil grandmother, found us, and if we didn’t do something to protect ourselves right now, our family was doomed. It was almost dinnertime anyway. On a Sunday, everyone would be home.
I opened the door and walked into the small office space that housed Baylor Investigative Agency—a short hallway, three offices on the left, a break room, and conference room on the right. The temptation to hide in my office almost made me stop, but I kept going through the hallway to the other door that opened into the roughly three-thousand-square-foot space that served as our home. When we sold our house trying to raise money for my father’s hospital bills, we moved our family into the warehouse to cut costs. We’d split the floor space into three distinct sections: the office, the living space, and beyond it, past a very tall wall, Grandma Frida’s motor pool, where she worked on armored vehicles and mobile artillery for Houston’s magical elite.
I took off my shoes and marched through the maze of rooms. Faint voices came from the kitchen. Mom . . . Grandma. Good. This would save me time.
I walked into the kitchen and froze.
My mother and grandmother sat at our table. A young woman sat next to my grandmother. She was willowy and beautiful, with a heart-shaped face framed in waves of gorgeous red hair and eyes so grey, they looked silver.
Ice gripped my spine.
Rynda Charles. Rogan’s ex-fiancée. Olivia’s daughter.
“Do you remember me?” she asked. Her voice was breaking. Her eyes were bloodshot, her face so pale her lips seemed almost white. “You killed my mother.”
I opened my mouth. Nothing came out.
Mom made big eyes at me and nodded toward the table. I dropped my bag on the floor and sat.
“Drink your tea,” Grandma Frida said, pushed a steaming cup of tea toward Rynda.
Rynda picked it up and drank, but her gaze was fixed on me. Desperation in her eyes turned to near panic. Right.
I closed my eyes, took a deep breath from the stomach all the way up, held it, and let it out slowly. One . . . Two . . . Calm . . . calm . . .
“Nevada?” Grandma Frida asked.
“She’s an empath Prime,” I said. “I’m upset, so it’s affecting her.”
Rynda stared into her cup.
Five . . . Six . . . Breathe in, breathe out . . . Ten. Good enough.
I opened my eyes and looked at Rynda. I had to keep my voice and my emotions under control. “Your mother killed an entire crew of Rogan’s soldiers and four lawyers, including two women your age. It was an unprovoked slaughter. Their husbands are now widowers and their children are motherless because of her.”
“A person is never just one thing,” Rynda said. “To you she might have been a monster, but to me she was my mother. Grandmother to my children. They have no grandparents now.”
“I’m sorry for your and their loss. I regret that things went the way they did. But it was a justified kill.” Dear God, I sounded like my mother.
“I don’t even know how she died.” Rynda clenched her hands into a single fist. “They only gave me back her bones. How did my mother die, Nevada?”
I took a deep breath. “It wasn’t an easy or a quick death.”
“I deserve to know.” There was steel in her voice. “Tell me.”
“No. Why are you here?”
Her hand shook and the mug danced a little as she brought it to her lips. She took another swallow of her tea. “My husband is missing. I need your help.”
Okay. Missing husband. Familiar territory. “When was the last time you saw . . . ?” Rogan had said his name one time, what was it? “. . . Brian?”
“Three days ago. He went to work on Thursday and didn’t come back. He doesn’t answer his phone. Brian likes his routine. He’s always home by dinner.” A note of hysteria crept into her voice. “I know what you’ll ask: Does he have a mistress? Did we have a good marriage? Does he disappear on drunken binges? No. No, he doesn’t. He loves me and the kids. He comes home!”
She must’ve spoken to the APD. “Did you fill out a missing persons report?”
“Yes. They’re not going to look for him.” Her voice turned bitter. She was getting more agitated by the minute. “He’s a Prime. It’s House business. Except House Sherwood is convinced that Brian is okay and he’s just taking a break. Nobody is looking for him, except me. Nobody is returning my calls. Even Rogan refuses to see me.”
That didn’t sound right. Rogan would never turn her away, even if I pitched a huge fit about it. I’d watched the two of them talking before. He liked her and he cared about her. “What did Rogan say exactly?”
“I came to him on Friday. His people told me he was out. He was out on Saturday. I asked to wait and they told me it was a waste of time. They didn’t know when he would be back. I may be naive, but I’m not an idiot. I know what that means. Two weeks ago, I had friends. I had my mother’s friends—powerful, respected, and always so eager to do Olivia Charles a favor. Two weeks ago, one phone call and half of the city would be out looking for Brian. They would be putting pressure on the police, the mayor, and the Texas Rangers. But now everyone is out. Everyone is too busy to see me. There is an invisible wall around me. No matter how hard I scream, nobody can hear me. People just nod and offer platitudes.”
“He didn’t stonewall you,” I said. “He was out of state. With me.”
Silence fell, heavy and tense.
“I shouldn’t have come here,” she said. “I’ll get the children and go.”
“That’s right,” Grandma Frida said.
“No,” Mom said. I knew that voice. That was Sergeant Mom voice. Rynda knew that voice too, because she sat up straighter. Olivia Charles was never in the military, but three minutes of talking to her had told me that she had ruled her househ
old with an iron fist and had a very low tolerance for nonsense.
“You’re here now,” Mom said. “You came to us for help because you had nowhere to turn and you’re scared for your husband and your children. You came to the right place. Nevada is very good at tracking missing people. Either she’ll help you or she’ll recommend someone who will.”
Grandma Frida looked at Mom as if she had sprouted a pineapple on her head.
“Right,” I said. I may not have personally murdered Rynda’s mother, but I made that death possible. And now she was a pariah, alone and scared. She lost her mother, her husband, and all of the people she thought were her friends. I had to help her. I had to at least get her started in the right direction.
“Can I talk to the two of you for a damn minute?” Grandma Frida growled.
“One moment,” I told Rynda and got up.
Grandma grabbed my arm with one hand, grabbed Mom’s wrist with her other hand, and dragged us down the hallway all the way to the end, as far from the kitchen as we could get.
“Children?” I glanced at Mom.
“Your sisters are watching them. A boy and a girl.”
“Have the two of you lost your damn minds?” Grandma Frida hissed.
“She isn’t lying,” I said. “Her husband is really gone.”
“I expect that of her!” Grandma Frida pointed at me with her thumb, while glaring at my mother. “But you ought to know better, Penelope.”
“That woman is at the end of her rope,” Mom said. “How much do you think it cost her to come here? This is what we do. We help people like her.”
“Exactly!” Grandma Frida hissed. “She’s at the end of her rope. She’s beautiful, rich, helpless, and she’s desperately looking for someone to save her. And she’s Rogan’s ex-fiancée. If Nevada takes her case, there is no way the two of them won’t have contact.”
I stared at her.
“She’s a man magnet.” Grandma Frida balled her hands into fists. “Men eat that helpless rescue-me crap up. Her husband has been gone for three days. If he hasn’t run off, he’s probably dead. She’ll need consoling. She’ll be looking for a shoulder to cry on, a big strong shoulder. Do I need to spell it out? You’re about to serve your boyfriend to her on a silver platter!”
Rynda was very beautiful and very helpless. I wanted to help her. I knew Rogan would too.
“It’s not like that. He broke off the engagement.”
Grandma Frida shook her head. “You told me they knew each other for years, since they were little kids. That kind of thing doesn’t just go away. Rogan’s people know it too, that’s why they didn’t give her any information. You’re playing with fire, Nevada. Cut her loose. Let somebody else take care of her. She’s a Prime. She’s rich. She isn’t your problem, unless you make her your problem.”
I looked at Mom.
“Third rule,” she said.
When Dad and Mom started the agency, they had only three rules: first, once we were paid, we stayed bought; second, we did everything we could to not break the law; and third, at the end of the day, we had to be able to look our reflection in the eye. I could live with Olivia’s death. I had nightmares about it, but it was justified. Throwing Rynda out now, when she sat at our kitchen table, was beyond me. Where would she go?
“If Rynda’s crying will make Rogan break up with me, then it wouldn’t last anyway.”
Most of me believed the words that came out of my mouth, but a small, petty part didn’t. That was okay. I was human and I was entitled to a little bit of insecurity. But I was damned if I let it dictate my actions.
“Thank you, Grandma, but I’ve got it.”
Grandma Frida threw her hands up in disgust. “When your heart breaks, don’t come crying to me.”
“I will anyway.” I hugged her.
“Egh . . .” She made a show of trying to knock me off, then hugged me back.
I opened the door to the office and started down the hallway toward my desk and laptop that waited on it.
“It’s James,” Grandma Frida said mournfully behind me. “He ruined all of my practical grandchildren with his altruism.”
Mom didn’t answer. Dad had been dead seven years, but hearing his name still hurt her. It still hurt me.
I grabbed the laptop, a notepad, and the new client folder just in case, then walked back into the kitchen, sat down at the table, and opened my computer. A few keystrokes told me Bern was home and online.
I fired off a quick email. “Please send me the basics on Brian Sherwood ASAP.” I set the laptop aside and switched to the writing pad and pen. People minded notes on paper a lot less than a laptop or being recorded, and I needed Rynda to relax. She was already keyed up.
“Let’s start at the beginning.”
“You don’t like me,” Rynda said. “I felt it back in the ballroom. You were jealous of me.”
“Yes.” That’s what I get for deciding to take on an empath as a client.
“And when you walked in and saw me, you felt pity and fear.”
“Yes.”
“But you are going to help me anyway. Why? It’s not guilt. Guilt is like plunging into a dark well. I would’ve felt that.”
“You tell me.”
Her eyes narrowed. Magic brushed me, feather-light.
“Compassion,” she said quietly. “And duty. Why would you feel a sense of duty toward me?”
“Have you ever held a job?”
She frowned. “No. We don’t need the extra money.”
That must be nice. “Do you have any hobbies? Any passions?”
“I . . . make sculptures.”
“Do you sell them?”
“No. They’re nothing spectacular. I’ve never participated in any exhibits.”
“Then why do you keep making them?”
She blinked. “It makes me happy.”
“Being a private investigator makes me happy. I’m not just doing it for the money. I’m doing it because sometimes I get to help people. Right now, you need help.”
The laptop dinged. A new e-mail, from Bern, popped into my inbox. I clicked it.
Brian Sherwood, 32, second son of House Sherwood, Prime, herbamagos. Principal business: Sherwood BioCore. Estimated personal worth: $30 million. Wife: Rynda (Charles), 29. Children: Jessica, 6, and Kyle, 4. Siblings: Edward Sherwood, 38; Angela Sherwood, 23.
Brian Sherwood was a plant mage. Rynda was an empath with a secondary telepathic talent. That didn’t add up. Primes usually married within their branch of magic. As Rogan once eloquently explained to me in his falling-on-his-sword speech, preserving and increasing magic within the family drove most of their marriage decisions.
I looked back to her. “I don’t know yet if I’m your best option. It may be that you would be better served by a different agency. But before we talk about any of that walk me through your Thursday. You woke up. Then what happened?”
She focused. “I got up. Brian was already awake. He’d taken a shower. I made breakfast and fixed the lunches for him and the kids.”
“Do you fix their lunches every day?”
“Yes. I like doing it.”
Brian Sherwood, worth thirty million dollars, took a brown bag lunch his wife made to work every day. Did he eat it or throw it in the trash? That was the question.
“Brian kissed me and told me he would be home at the usual time.”
“What time is that?”
“Six o’clock. I said we’d be having cubed steak for dinner. He asked if fries were involved.”
She choked on a sob.
“Who took Jessica to school?”
She glanced at me, surprised. “How did you know her name?”
“My cousin pulled your public records.” I turned the laptop so she could see.
She blinked. “My whole life in one paragraph.”
“Keep going,” I told her. “How did Jessica get to school?”
“Brian dropped her off. I took Kyle on a walk.”
Lie.
/>
“I called Brian around lunch. He answered.”
Truth.
“What did you talk about?”
“Nothing serious.”
Lie.
“I’m not your enemy. It would help if you were honest with me. Let’s try this again. Where did you and Kyle go and what was the phone call about?”
She set her lips into a flat, hard line.
“Everything you tell me now is confidential. It isn’t privileged, like conversations with your attorney, which means I will have to disclose it in a court proceeding. But short of that, it won’t go anywhere.”
She covered her face with her hands, thought about it for a long moment, and exhaled. “Kyle’s magic hasn’t manifested. I manifested by two, Brian manifested by four months, Jessica manifested at thirteen months. Kyle is almost five. He’s late. He’s seeing a specialist. I always call Brian after every session because he wants to know how Kyle did.”
For a Prime, a child with no magic would be devastating. Rogan’s voice popped into my head. “You think you won’t care about it, but you will. Think of your children and having to explain that their talents are subpar, because you have failed to secure a proper genetic match.”
“Your anxiety spiked. Why? Was it something I said? Is the specialist important?”
“I don’t know yet.” She would be a really difficult client. She registered every emotional twitch I made. “Did Kyle manifest?”
“No.”
“What happened next?”
She sighed and went through her day. She fed the kids, then they read books and watched cartoons together. She made dinner, but Brian didn’t show. She called his cell several times over the next two hours and finally called his brother. He was still at work. He walked down to Brian’s office and reported that it was empty. He also called down to the front desk and the guard confirmed that Brian had signed out and left the building a quarter before six.
“How far is your house from Sherwood BioCore?”
“It’s a ten-minute drive. We live in Hunter Creek Village. BioCore is at Post Oak Circle, near the Houstonian Hotel. It’s three and a half miles down Memorial Drive. Even with heavy traffic, he’s usually home in fifteen minutes.”
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