by Mari Carr
“My parents had a framed copy of it stashed away in our attic. I found it once and asked about it. My mother said it belonged to my father’s family, and that it had been passed down through the generations. She said that someday it would be mine to store in a box somewhere.”
“Did she say anything else about it?”
Tess shook her head. “No. I got the sense she didn’t really want it. That it was some silly thing taking up space. My mom is sort of the opposite of a hoarder, the ultimate minimalist. If she decides something doesn’t have a purpose in life, she pitches it. Wrote a best-selling book instructing others on how to do the same.”
“Hey,” Isaiah said. “Was it Ellen Hamilton’s Less Mess, No Stress?”
Tess nodded.
“I read that. She’s a clean-house genius.”
Tess rolled her eyes, ready to argue that assertion. “She pitched every single one of my Barbie dolls because they weren’t in perfect condition. I would have liked to pass those on to my own daughter.”
“Really?” Franco shook his head. “That’s a shame. I’ll never understand why anyone would want to throw away someone else’s history.”
Caden sighed. “Can we discuss dirty houses later?”
“Of course.” Once again, Franco was focused, a man on a mission. “Can you find out where the poem came from exactly, Tess? Determine if anything else was passed down as well?” Franco asked.
Tess nodded. “Sure. There’s a chance my dad might know more about it. It was from his family after all. I’ll call him and ask.”
Franco smiled. “Your task is to interpret the poem, determine what it means and follow any clues you might find. The three of you may be the key to uncovering the sins of our foes and protecting our society from a very real threat. Once you’ve completed your task, you’ll return here to be formally wed, your trinity complete.”
Caden wasn’t sure what part of Franco’s statement frightened him more. The threat from their enemies or the formal wedding to these two strangers.
“Is that all?” Isaiah asked as the three of them rose to leave.
Franco hesitated. “For now. Caden, I wonder if you might stay behind a moment.”
Tess and Isaiah took the hint and rose to leave. Isaiah was studying Caden curiously. His new partner wasn’t going to be an easy man to hide things from. He seemed too astute, too in tune with his surroundings and the people in them.
The moment they left, a second door in the far side of the room opened and Devon walked in.
“Thought I smelled something foul,” Caden said.
Devon’s expression didn’t change. It didn’t have to. He never looked at Caden with anything other than pure disgust.
“There’s something else we need from you.”
Caden crossed his arms. He should have known. Time to pay the piper.
“What?” he asked, his tone dripping in disinterest.
“I’m sure you noticed the names mentioned in the poem. In addition to Adams, Jefferson, and Hamilton—”
“The Hancocks.” Caden hadn’t been happy to see that surname included.
“Yes. They are still under suspicion.”
“Thought you couldn’t prove they were purists?” Devon had questioned Caden extensively about who else in the Trinity Masters might be involved, but apart from his parents and Mrs. Wythe, Caden hadn’t been privy to that information. He had long suspected Rose’s parents, but had never been able to prove it. If the Hancocks were a part of the purists, they were masters at keeping their hands clean and letting others do the dirty work.
“As you know, they reside in Boston. Since our questioning, they’ve been trying to reach out to Rose, to make amends for—”
“If they touch one hair on Rose’s head, if they do one single thing to hurt her, they’ll meet the same fate as my parents.”
Caden anticipated his threat would provoke Devon to anger. After all, he’d gone ballistic when Caden had blown up the yacht.
As such, he dropped his arms, his hands balling up, ready to swing in case the other man came at him. They’d both been raised in private schools, the image of wealthy and refined, but that didn’t mean they wouldn’t resort to a good old-fashioned fist fight if words didn’t do the trick.
“You wouldn’t have to blow them up. I’d take care of them much more discreetly, and their deaths would not be instantaneous but take much longer, and be far more painful.”
Caden’s clenched fists loosened. It was the first thing Devon had ever said to him that almost made him like the man.
Of course, Devon ruined it in the next instant. “Given your willingness to toe the line for your parents for so many years, the Grand Master believes the Hancocks may turn to you as an ally. May think you’re still loyal to the cause and try to recruit you back.”
Caden didn’t mention his reasons for following his family’s orders. What had seemed like an honorable cause—keeping Rose and Tabby safe—no longer felt that way when he saw how Weston was able to accomplish the same without sacrificing so many of his principles.
“Am I supposed to let them think I’m on their side?”
Devon started to nod, then hesitated. “You’ve been playing the game for a long time, Caden. If they approach you,” he paused before saying, “read the room.”
“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
“I’m leaving it up to you to play it however you think best. If it’s as a double agent, do it. If it’s as a newfound adversary, so be it. We weren’t able to question them properly. Given your knowledge of the purists and how they worked, maybe you can.”
Caden caught sight of Franco’s eyebrows rising in surprise at his partner’s comment. He had to admit he was in shock too, but years of practice had ensured he was better at schooling his expressions.
“Who’s threatening us? It’s obvious this is bigger than the purists.”
Franco looked at Devon, whose face was locked up tightly. The guy had a killer poker face. Finally, he nodded at his husband.
Franco sat down, inviting Caden to do the same. “What I say here needs to stay between us.”
Caden nodded. “Who the hell would I tell?”
Franco glanced toward the door where his new partners had just exited. Caden rolled his eyes and snorted. “I don’t know those people from Adam.”
Franco didn’t appear to like his answer. The guy seemed like the mismatch in the Juliette and Devon trinity. He wasn’t as serious and, while Devon gave nothing away with his expressions, Franco was a goddamn open book, written in large print.
For the next few minutes, Caden sat in stunned silence as Franco told him everything Weston and Rose had uncovered, about the sunken ship, the stolen artwork, the children.
Caden had spent nearly a decade of his life seeking these very answers. Having Franco roll out all the details and fill in all the blanks was as refreshing as it was annoying. So many years of his life were lost trying to uncover these secrets. And now, he couldn’t even revel in the reveal because shining a light on those crimes had proven there were even more secrets buried under those layers.
He sat quietly for several minutes after Franco had stopped talking. The other men gave him time to let it all soak in.
“I don’t understand how this poem is going to help us with the Masters’ Admiralty.”
Devon took over, and it didn’t take a genius to realize it was because he was censoring the answer and afraid Franco would say too much. So Caden was working on a need-to-know basis. What else was new?
“They’ve issued some threats that we’re dealing with. They want the rest of the stolen artwork, along with other things that are more difficult to deliver.”
“What other things?”
Devon shook his head, ignoring the questions. “Let’s just say, we’re hoping the mystery buried in the poem will offer us a bargaining chip.”
Caden knew that was as much as he was going to get from them, and he suddenly felt the strong desir
e to get the hell out of this place. “Anything else?”
Devon handed him a small piece of paper. “My phone number. Keep in touch. If the Hancocks really are purists, they’re better at concealing it than your parents ever were. Given his political aspirations, they’ve learned how to bury skeletons deep, and they’re rich beyond even your imagination, which means there’s probably not too much they can’t afford. Including a hitman or three. I can only offer you support if I know where you are.”
Caden pulled out his cell, punched in the number under the name Douchebag—which provoked a chuckle from Franco—then balled up the paper and tossed it on the table. He started to leave, then turned around to look at Devon.
“These people she’s bound me to…” He struggled to decide how to word his question, then kicked himself for broaching it in the first place.
Devon didn’t need to hear anything more. “They’re good people, Caden. But…they’re not in the lifestyle.”
Caden already suspected that. Hell, he already knew that. But hearing it confirmed only drove home exactly how screwed he really was.
Chapter Six
When Caden joined them in the corridor, Isaiah decided it was time to get his newly formed trinity away from the austere headquarters and find them somewhere quiet to chat and get to know one another.
“I believe there will be a car waiting for us outside. It’s been a long day and we’ve had a lot of things thrown at us. Why don’t we grab something to eat?” he suggested.
Tess nodded. “That sounds wonderful. I was too nervous to eat lunch earlier. I’m afraid I’m not a local, so I’ll have to leave the restaurant choice to the two of you.”
Isaiah looked at Caden. “I’m not from Boston either. Caden?”
Caden glanced at the time on his phone. There was no denying from the stiffness in his shoulders and the scowl that never seemed to leave his face that Caden would rather eat dirt than dine with them.
Isaiah wasn’t sure how to respond to the man’s outright anger. It wafted off of him in waves.
“Teatro is good if you like Italian. It’s probably pretty quiet right now. Theater crowd won’t start showing up for a couple of hours.”
Tess started to put on her jacket and Isaiah stepped closer to help her slide it onto her shoulders.
“I love Italian,” she said.
Caden gave them a curt nod and walked three steps ahead of them to the elevator and then out the Boston Public Library doors. As Isaiah expected, a limousine was waiting for them.
They directed the driver to take them to the restaurant, then sat in silence for a few moments. Isaiah wasn’t a quiet person by nature. His mother had told him throughout most of his childhood that there was no crime in letting a quiet moment last.
He grinned at the memory, missing his mother, who had passed away a year earlier. Glancing at his new wife-to-be, he wondered what his mother would have thought of Tess.
Isaiah wasn’t a legacy of the Trinity Masters. In truth, he suspected he was probably a bit of an anomaly in the organization, not recruited until he was in his late twenties. Since joining, he’d learned most members were either legacies or initiated shortly after college.
“Where are you from?” Isaiah asked Tess, his ability to remain silent finally stretched too taut.
“Washington, D.C.”
Isaiah reared back. “Really? I have a home in Loudoun County.”
“I didn’t realize you lived so close to the city.”
He tilted his head. “You say that like you know me.”
Tess grinned. “I’m a huge Isaiah Jefferson fan. I recognized you in the altar room from a picture I’ve seen on the jacket of your books. We actually have another connection as well. I’m the Director of Exhibits at the Smithsonian.”
“Oh my God. Of course. Tess Hamilton. You’re the youngest director in the Smithsonian’s history. I read an article in the newspaper about your promotion. I saw your work on the Jefferson Bible exhibit. It was wonderful.”
“I actually contacted your publisher just prior to the launch to get your opinion, but I was told you were out of the country on a book tour.”
Isaiah never ceased to be amazed by how small the world really was. “She didn’t tell me that. Though she was the one who told me it had opened upon my return to the States and suggested that I go check it out.”
Throughout their conversation, Isaiah kept an eye on Caden. While he sensed the man was listening to every word they spoke, Caden’s gaze was locked on the scenery outside the window.
“How about you, Caden?” Isaiah asked, trying to draw him into the conversation.
“How about me what?”
“Where are you from?” Isaiah asked, pointedly ignoring the sharp tone in Caden’s voice.
He hadn’t expected his question to stump the man, but there was no denying the pregnant pause and considering look on Caden’s face.
“West Coast,” he said at last.
The answer was vague, but Isaiah didn’t bother to ask for more specifics. Caden wasn’t in the mood to talk.
Or so he thought. He was pleasantly surprised when Caden asked, “You’re a writer?”
Isaiah nodded. “Fiction. Thrillers. Mysteries.”
“They’re more than that,” Tess said, leaning forward. “They are an amazing blend of history and fiction. Your knowledge of American history and architecture, specifically that of the Jeffersonian time period, is incredible. You weave so much of the Jefferson lore into your stories, and I’m absolutely in love with Joel Hemings.”
Caden glanced at Tess. “I don’t know who he is.”
She smiled. “He’s the hero of Isaiah’s books. The super-hot police detective who solves all the crimes with the help of a nerdy female professor who teaches at UVA.”
“Evie isn’t nerdy,” Isaiah protested with a laugh.
Before they could continue the debate, the limo stopped in front of the restaurant. The driver gave them his number, promising to return when they finished their meal to take them to the hotel.
Once they were seated, Isaiah ordered a bottle of Barolo and an antipasto platter for the table. The restaurant was beautiful inside. Though not particularly large, the ornate vaulted ceilings gave the room the appearance of being much larger. The lighting was dim, and the hostess had placed them at a corner table that added to the intimacy of the meal. Caden had chosen well.
The barrier they’d very briefly broken through in the limo reappeared as Caden fell silent once again, his eyes roaming around in such a way that Isaiah was left wondering if the other man was paranoid or seeking an escape route. His fiction-fueled brain decided it was a bit of both. Maybe Caden was in law enforcement, or a spy. No, the other man was giving off a distinct paranoid vibe.
He grimaced. If Isaiah had to pick his worst fault, it was his tendency to constantly view the real world around him as some fantastical landscape better suited to his stories. Why the hell would Caden be paranoid or on the run? He dismissed his whimsical fantasy and tried to concentrate on reality.
“Are you currently working on a new story?” Tess asked him. Caden may be closed off and distant, but Tess was refreshingly friendly and open.
“I’m in the research phase of my next book. Usually takes me a few months to gather information, develop the characters in my head, create a plot. This story is fighting me a bit. Vague ideas that I can’t seem to make take any sort of form.”
Tess waited until the waiter poured their wine, then took a sip and continued the conversation. “Sounds fascinating to me. I wish my brain worked that way. I’m much more boring. A total ‘just the facts, ma’am’ kind of person.”
“I suspect that’s an important skill to have, considering your profession. History exhibits tend to demand accuracy.”
She laughed and took another sip of wine. “You’d be surprised how many don’t.”
Caden was no longer ignoring them, but Isaiah wasn’t sure his attention was an improvement. The other ma
n’s gaze remained steadfastly on Tess’ face, watching her. His actions weren’t lost on Tess, who flushed slightly.
Isaiah couldn’t resist reaching across the table and running the back of his fingers over her cheeks.
“I’m blushing, aren’t I?” Tess sighed. “Curse of a redhead. I wish I could control it. It gives people the wrong impression of me, makes them think I’m shy or easily intimidated.”
“You aren’t?” Caden asked.
She shook her head and Isaiah was impressed—and slightly aroused—by the strength in her tone when she said, “No. I’m not.”
Isaiah lifted his glass. “How about a toast? To a future waiting to be written.”
The three of them tapped their wineglasses together. Caden’s scowl seemed to fade a bit. Time to take advantage of the thaw.
“What do you do for a living, Caden?”
Once again, Isaiah noticed the slight pause and his mind went wild. There was a mystery to solve right at this very table and its name was Caden Anderson.
“I’m a venture capitalist, primarily investing in tech start-ups. Graduated from Stanford with degrees in business and computer science.”
“Wow.” Isaiah was impressed. “I love the sound of that. May have to pick your brain for future book material.”
Caden nodded. “I guess I’m going to have to buy one of your books to read.”
Isaiah shrugged and laughed. “You don’t have to buy one. I have a closet full of print copies. You can take your pick. Although I realize thrillers aren’t for everyone. What’s your usual genre of choice?”
“I haven’t had a lot of time to read for pleasure the past couple of years.”
Isaiah wanted to dig deeper, but the waiter returned to take their order. After he left, Isaiah filled up their glasses, emptying the bottle.
“I assume you’re both legacies?” Isaiah asked.
Tess and Caden nodded.
“I’m a late bloomer. Didn’t join the Trinity Masters until I was twenty-nine. I must admit I’m a big fan of the perks of membership. I’ve made some important connections. One of which has led to my first book being optioned by a Hollywood studio. With any luck, it’ll hit the big screen in a couple of years.”
