by Kathy Reichs
Security Chief David Hudson emerged. Forty-something, graying, hair buzzed to his scalp, Hudson had the unyielding glare of a bird of prey. His uniform was neatly pressed, his shoes and name tag gleaming.
After recent events, Kit had decided to completely overhaul LIRI’s security. New fences. New cameras. New locks. Updated protocols. Better equipment. And a hard-ass security supervisor to oversee it all. On the job less than a month, Hudson was proving to be Kit’s least popular upgrade.
“I need to see my father, Mr. Hudson,” I said politely. “Just a fast word.”
“Wait.” Hudson snatched a clipboard from the countertop. “Sign, please.”
“I really won’t be long,” I said, beaming my most disarming smile. “I don’t want to clutter your official records with a quick pop-in.”
Finger tap. “Sign.”
Locking my lips in the upright position, I scribbled my name. “Good?”
Hudson didn’t smile. Never did. “No side trips.”
Nodding obediently, we started toward the elevators.
“Halt!”
My eyes closed briefly before I turned. “Yes?”
“Just you.” Hudson’s gaze scanned Hi, Shelton, and Ben. “Unless these boys also have business?”
“Nope.” Ben walked back outside.
“Mr. Hudson,” I began, “we’re just going to—”
“It’s cool, Tory.” Shelton headed after Ben, a head-shaking Hi at his heels. “We’ll wait with Coop.”
“Thanks, guys. Five minutes, tops.” I raised my eyebrows at Hudson. He snapped off a curt nod.
I strode to the elevator, entered, and pressed the button for the fourth floor.
“No side trips!” Hudson barked again, as the doors slid shut.
“Jackass,” I muttered, before remembering Hudson’s cameras still tracked me.
The elevator stopped at the second floor, admitting two white-coated men. I knew the taller one by name.
“Hi, Anders.” I tried not to blush.
“Tory. Off to see the Wizard?”
With pale green eyes and curly brown hair, Anders Sundberg was easily LIRI’s most handsome employee. Just a shade past thirty, a former Olympic swimmer, he looked like a taller, buffer Justin Timberlake. In other words, pretty hot.
Anders had joined Kit’s marine biology team the previous summer, adding a specialization in sea turtle habitats. Since Kit’s promotion he’d been running the department on a provisional basis. His selection had ruffled some feathers among the senior PhDs, but, by all accounts, the guy was doing a good job. The position was his to lose.
“I’m assuming you mean Kit,” I said, “so yeah.”
“He’s the one behind the curtain, pulling all the strings.” Anders grinned. “The great and powerful Dr. Howard!”
The other man appeared a decade older than Anders. He had thinning black hair styled in a bad comb-over, close-set eyes, and a nose about an inch too long. His foot tapped impatiently as he waited for the doors to close.
“This barrel of laughs is Mike Iglehart.” Anders elbowed his companion. “Say hello to Tory Brennan.”
“Nice to meet you,” Iglehart said blandly. “Is there a field trip on the island or something? I don’t think you’re supposed to leave the group.”
He promptly lost interest, refocusing on Anders. “I need more bandwidth on the mainframe. The Triton program can only run half-time as it is. If we’re going—”
“This is Director Howard’s daughter, Mike. You might want to show a bit more courtesy.”
“Kit’s little girl, eh?” Iglehart really looked at me for the first time. “You must be thrilled about your father wrangling the director’s office. It’s too bad I didn’t find a lost fortune.”
My lips parted, but words didn’t form. What was this guy’s problem?
The elevator beeped our arrival on the third floor. The door opened, and Iglehart strode out without a backward glance.
“Don’t mind him.” Anders actually winked. “Mike came to LIRI about the same time as your dad, and hasn’t exactly flown up the corporate ladder. Chalk the attitude up to sour grapes.”
“No sweat.” I tried for breezy, found myself standing straighter in response to Ander’s undivided attention. “Have a good one.”
“I’m dissecting a three-week-old turtle carcass,” Anders said as the doors slowly closed. “How could I not?”
“Have a good one,” I repeated to the empty car. “You’re such a dork, Brennan.”
The elevator continued to the top floor. I exited into a short hallway leading to a pair of frosted-glass doors. The director’s suite. Under Karsten, this whole area had been a ghost town. Abhorring distraction, he’d kept every office empty but his own.
Not so, Kit. The floor now hummed with activity, every workspace occupied or held open for guest researchers. Inside the director’s suite, Kit had assembled LIRI’s business-side officers. Fund-raising. Marketing. Public Relations. Trust Management.
I’d once asked Kit why he put up with so much distraction in his suite. “Better the pencil pushers are jammed in with me than bothering active scientists,” he reasoned. “And I want these people out here on Loggerhead, not in cozy downtown high-rises. It’ll help them remember what we’re actually doing.”
Passing through the doors, I encountered my last obstacle: Cordelia Hoke.
The Dragon.
Under Karsten, Hoke had been the only other employee stationed on the fourth floor. Though less than pleased by Kit’s disruption of her once-private kingdom, she tried to keep it to herself. And usually failed.
Hoke as Kit’s personal secretary? My guess, he was too chicken to let her go.
Kit had tried to stop Hoke’s hourly puff break—LIRI was, and always had been, a smoke-free facility—but even I knew she still snuck a cig every chance she got. But that was less than under the previous regime.
The nicotine cutback hadn’t improved the Dragon’s temperament. She glared at me over the rims of her bifocals.
“May I help you, Tory?” Her tone suggested the opposite intent.
“I was hoping to snag Kit for a moment.”
“Your father’s very busy.” Hoke shifted her impressive bulk, wiping cookie crumbs from the sleeves of her ragged cashmere sweater. She had one for each day of the week. Today was violet. “He can’t come running every time you stub a toe.”
Grrrr.
“I’d like to speak with him about his dinner plans.”
Blank face. No response.
“So that I can make my dinner plans.”
Nothing.
“Look, just tell my dad I’m here.”
Hoke’s face darkened. “Honey, in my day a young lady didn’t speak to her elders like that. We were taught manners.”
I was about to further reduce her opinion of my upbringing when the shade to Kit’s office rose. My father stood on the opposite side of the glass, phone to ear, a bored expression on his face. His charcoal suit and maroon tie were a far cry from the scuffed white lab coat that, until this year, he’d worn every working day of his life.
Kit made “can’t talk now, I’m tied up, please feed yourself” motions with his hands. Nodding, I waved good-bye.
Kit shook his head ruefully, mouthed, “Sorry.”
I gave him a thumbs-up, smiling to convey my understanding.
Hoke cleared her throat. “Will there be anything else?”
“Nope.” I was already headed for the door.
CHAPTER 4
DR. MICHAEL IGLEHART strode the hall, ignoring his companion.
Dr. Sundberg prattled on about login issues and allocating server space, but Iglehart had checked out.
The Brennan girl rankled him. Now he had an errand to complete.
“I can only offer runtime after hours,” Sundberg continued. “The backup is temporary—we’ll have expansion packs in place by early next month. Dr. Howard has signed orders doubling our computing capacity.”
&nbs
p; “Wonderful.” Choking back the bile in his throat.
Having to ask Anders Sundberg for permission was insult enough. Needing Kit Howard’s authority was almost intolerable.
Life is never fair. Ever.
Iglehart had joined LIRI before either of these imbeciles. The three of them had nearly identical CVs. Now one ran his department, and the other headed the entire freaking institute!
And why? Because Kit Howard found a treasure in some sinkhole.
And what, pray, for Dr. Iglehart? Nothing. Zilch. Nada. The two frauds assumed he’d be grateful just to retain his position.
On that count, they’d miscalculated. Badly.
“Mike?”
Iglehart’s attention snapped back to the present. He’d walked right past the conference room.
“Staff meetings still take place in here.” Sundberg grinned, holding the door. “And don’t worry about Triton, we’ll get you squared away.”
Iglehart forced a smile. “Sorry. I’ve forgotten a file I’ll need. Won’t be a moment.”
“Sure.” Sundberg waved a hand. “I can hold off for five. Take your time.”
“Thanks.” Such graciousness from his lordship. “Back in two shakes.”
Iglehart hurried to his phone booth–sized office and pressed the space bar on his computer.
How he hated the cramped, windowless dungeon. Metal desk. Straight back chair. Soulless institutional bookshelves. Never enough space. To do any real research, he was forced to hunt for open conference rooms.
Which meant endless interruptions by the idiots working around him. Idiots with bigger offices. Galling.
So he’d taken steps. Howard and Sundberg thought him content to eat whatever scraps fell from their tables? Think again.
Howard had been director for two months, yet here Iglehart remained. Stuck in a broom closet with a second-rate Dell.
Not for long.
Agitated, he tapped the keyboard again. The institute’s logo finally appeared on-screen. Entering the backdoor code he’d been given in secret, Iglehart accessed LIRI’s mail server and deactivated the security protocols. Safely off the grid, he began to type.
The email was short and to the point. He knew what his contact wanted, even if the reasoning escaped him.
Iglehart pressed send, reset the protocols, and slapped his laptop shut.
You shouldn’t have ignored me, Kit.
Wearing a satisfied smirk, Iglehart hurried to meet the coworkers he despised.
CHAPTER 5
I SENSED TROUBLE the moment I turned my key.
Coop shot inside and up the short flight of stairs to our town-home’s small living room. Where he froze, tail erect and bristling.
Only one thing caused that reaction in my wolfdog: Kit’s gal pal.
Blargh.
I trudged up the steps to see Whitney Dubois scootched to one end of my couch, eyeing Coop as she might an intruding ax murderer.
Mascaraed eyes darted in my direction. “Tory, control this creature!”
“Relax.” I clicked my tongue. Coop glanced my way, padded to his doggie bed, circled three times, and sat. “He’s just surprised to find you here. In our house. Alone. Unannounced.”
“I came to feed you.” Manicured hands poofed her salon-blonde hair. “Lord knows what you’ve been eating lately. Your daddy spends far too much time at work. And on the weekend, no less!”
“Kit’s the director,” I said flatly. “It’s a demanding position.”
“But that makes him the boss.” Whitney’s nose crinkled as her deep blue eyes filled with incomprehension. “Can’t he leave whenever he wants?”
“That’s not how it works.” I suppressed a sigh. “To get LIRI back on its feet, Kit has a thousand details to square away. He’s chairing board meetings, managing the expansion, all while still overseeing day-to-day operations. Plus, he has responsibilities to the trust. It’s a huge job right now.”
“He should delegate.” Whitney’s voice carried the conviction of someone with no idea what she’s talking about. “Be more proactive.”
“He can’t.” This time, the sigh escaped. “Kit will be very busy until LIRI is finally straightened out. That’s going to be months, not weeks.”
Kit had talked with me about this before accepting the post. At length. I’d given my full approval—Kit becoming LIRI’s director meant no one had to move. That my friends’ parents’ jobs were safe, too. To keep everyone in Charleston, I’d have agreed to much worse than an overly busy father. Anything to preserve my pack.
Apparently Kit had failed to have the same conversation with Whitney.
“He needs to spend more time with his family,” she said firmly.
That’s me, not you.
“Whatever.” Something else had snagged my attention.
Throw pillows littered the couch on which Whitney lounged with her half-eaten peach. Lime green ones, with swirling pink embroidery.
New. Frilly. Definitely not a Kit purchase.
I scanned the room, noted other troubling developments.
There, on the bookshelf: a black-and-white porcelain vase. And on the mantel: the picture of Kit’s bowling team had been replaced by a framed shot of Kit and Whitney on the beach, wearing identical blue sweaters.
Other minor changes dotted the living room. A small ficus. Ceramic bookends. A wicker magazine caddy.
What the hell?
Kit and I share a townhouse on Morris, a four-square-mile island forming the south half of the entrance to Charleston Harbor. It’s a skinny, four-story home that goes up more than out. On the ground floor is an office and single-car garage. Our kitchen, dining, and sitting areas make up the second level, while floor three consists of sleeping quarters. Upon my arrival Kit moved into the one in back, giving me the larger front bedroom overlooking the ocean.
Our top floor is Kit’s man cave—an impressive media center that opens onto a spacious outdoor roof deck with a stunning view of the Atlantic. Every scrap of furniture was purchased from the good folks at Pottery Barn or IKEA. All in all, it’s nice, so long as you can handle all the stairs.
Our entire neighborhood consists of ten identical units built inside a 430-foot concrete structure formerly known as Fort Wagner—a remnant of the island’s days as a Civil War outpost. The community is so small that even most locals think Morris is uninhabited. Save for us, it is.
No other modern structures exist. There’s only one road—an unpaved strip of asphalt winding south through the dunes before crossing to Folly Island. Our sole lifeline to civilization.
The Loggerhead Trust had recently purchased the whole landmass, and leased the units to scientists working on Loggerhead. The Stolowitskis occupied one, as did the Blues and the Devers family, making my crew some of the planet’s most isolated teenagers.
The remoteness on Morris keeps visitors to a minimum. Yet here was Whitney, loafing on my sofa, making herself at home.
And practicing interior design.
I felt a hot flash of anger. The peroxide queen had overstepped—she had no right to redecorate my home without asking. She didn’t live there. Wasn’t my mother.
Whoa. There it was. As the emotional wave struck, I fought back tears.
Backstory. I’d come to live with Kit nine months earlier, after a drunk driver killed Mom. The pain of her loss still lingered just below the surface. Most of the time. Until some trigger caught me off guard.
Like unauthorized throw pillows on my couch.
I first met Kit a week after the accident. We got off to a rocky start, but lately had managed to find some common ground. That is, when I wasn’t busy getting shot at, or being arrested.
Kit once said I terrified him. He meant it in a good way. I think. Pretty sure.
Though light-years from a normal father-daughter relationship, we weren’t total strangers anymore. Progress. Baby steps.
As if I know what a normal father-daughter balance is, anyway.
But one thing beca
me clear straight off. On the topic of Whitney, we did not agree.
I found the woman vapid, tactless, nosy, and overbearing. To Kit she was pure enchantment. Go figure. Bottom line, I had to endure her presence.
So far, I’d mostly succeeded. Barely. But here she went again.
Talk to Kit later. No point arguing now.
Movement in my periphery distracted me. Coop, scenting food, had slunk to the edge of the coffee table.
Whitney noticed at the same time. “Back! Back!” Swatting downward with a cloth napkin. “Get away, you mongrel!”
Whitney smacked Coop’s snout while simultaneously pressing herself deeper into the couch. Coop fixed her with an unblinking ice-blue stare, gray-brown fur bristling along his spine.
“Tory!” Whitney squealed. “He’s going to attack!”
“Maybe.” I walked into the kitchen and snagged a Diet Coke from the fridge. “Try to protect your throat.”
“Tory!!!”
“Oh, relax.” Though enjoying Whitney’s discomfort, I knew Kit wouldn’t share my amusement. “Coop, heel!”
The wolfdog trotted to my side and sat. I couldn’t prove it, but I swear he looked pleased with himself.
Whitney straightened her clothes, rolled her eyes skyward seeking patience, then rose and walked into the dining room.
“It’s dinnertime.” Placing flatware on the table. “I brought catfish po’boys, Cajun style. Black-eyed peas on the side.”
I’ll give Whitney one thing—she knows good food. I could usually tolerate her company if bribed with Lowcountry deliciousness.
I’d nearly finished my po’boy when she blew it again.
“I spoke to the Women’s Committee today.” Daintily wiping glossy red lipstick from her teeth. “It’s just not practical to return you to next year’s cohort. The invitations have been printed, and an official roster has gone to the paper. You’ll be making your debut this season after all.”
My head dropped. “What? I’m only fourteen! I’ll be the youngest deb by almost two years!”
Despite my fervent wishes to the contrary, I was being forced to take part in the grand Southern tradition of a debutante ball. Whitney’s idea, though Kit had thrown in his full support. Some nonsense about me needing “more refinement” and extra “girl time.” Like it was my fault no teenage XX-chromosomes lived on Morris Island.
