She made a face. “Of course they are. Seven and nine are not attractive ages.”
“I have news for you. They’ll only get worse.”
She rolled her eyes. “At least I get a break every other week when I’m with you. It’s worth risking the plague to avoid them.”
“Right. No more rodent infested boxes on the table.” He eyed the crate against the wall, his fingers tingling with the urge to dig into all his great-uncle’s research.
“Geez, Dad, could you be more transparent? You’re practically salivating. I’m amazed Kaitlyn—or any woman, for that matter—is willing to put up with your obsession.” Bree finished her Mu Shu Pork and stood to take her plate to the kitchen. “I’m going to watch Netflix in my room.”
“Is your homework finished?”
“Of course.” She flashed a smile, her aqua-blue eyes so much like his own, lighting up with amusement. “I’ll leave you to your moldy books. Have a good time.”
He rose to drop a kiss on the top of her head. “Night, Bree. Don’t stay up too late.”
“I won’t.” Her flip flops slapped against the wood floor, and Stella’s tags jingled as the two left the room.
Wyatt ate the last eggroll before taking the leftover food to the kitchen where he put all the little white boxes in the fridge. As an afterthought, he stuck his plate in the dishwasher. Lately, he’d slacked on the housekeeping. Ignoring the dirty pans piled in the sink, he headed back to the dining room and rubbed his hands together.
Where to begin?
Might as well stick with the first box. Pulling it toward him, he dug in. Sorting the contents took longer than it should have since he kept stopping to read amusing excerpts from old journals. Hector’s grandmother had been a real firecracker.
My berry cobbler won first place at the county fair. Betty Newton was forced to eat her boastful words, which probably tasted better than her pie.
He laughed out loud, wishing he had someone to share that tidbit with. His own fault for always running from relationships. Pushing the negative thought away, he picked up the next journal.
It was approaching midnight, and his eyes were beginning to feel grainy when he finally reached the bottom of the box. A huge, leather-bound Bible, the cover cracked with age, rested on a scattering of mouse droppings. Fearing the book might fall apart, he held his breath as he placed it on the table.
Apparently, the ancient tome was sturdier than it looked. He opened the front cover and studied the crabbed, faded handwriting on the sprawling family tree inside. This had undoubtedly been the source for the charts his great-uncle had made.
“How fu . . . uh . . . freaking awesome is this?” He glanced furtively toward the swear jar before running a finger across the raised surface of the inside cover. The pastedown on the front board was loose, not exactly surprising considering the age and condition of the Bible, but it felt like something had been slipped behind the endpaper.
With care, Wyatt lifted the edge, and the glue gave way. A folded square of parchment lay beneath. He sucked in a breath and slid out the discolored sheet. “Good God. What the hell were you hiding, Uncle Hector?”
His heart thumped faster than a drum solo as he unfolded the brittle paper, too impatient to wait to handle the document properly wearing gloves. His gaze dropped to the signatures at the bottom of the page, and his knees weakened. Gripping the edge of the table, he sank onto the chair next to him.
“Jesus.” His voice was a whisper as he stared at the names. Thomas Jefferson. Benjamin Franklin. Alexander Hamilton. John Jay. John Adams. James Madison. George Washington.
The document was in surprisingly good condition, the writing distinct. The men who’d penned it had obviously used a good quality ink, and his ancestors had preserved it well.
Or the author of the document was a little too eager to make sure his forgery would be legible. The voice of reason gave him a pessimistic nudge.
If the parchment was a fake, it was a damned good one. Based on the texture alone, he’d bet a month’s salary the paper was over two hundred years old. And the way the ink lightened slightly before continuing in a darker shade was consistent with using a quill dipped in an ink pot. He wasn’t an expert, but—who the hell was he kidding? He probably knew more about old documents than most so-called experts did.
He focused on the words and read carefully, interpreting the flowery language of a previous century with the ease of familiarity. By the time he neared the bottom, his forehead was damp with perspiration. He snagged a paper napkin from the basket on the table and ran it over his face. If the document was legitimate, it would forever change the perception of the founding fathers and call into doubt the very foundations of the Constitution. Reason enough to sweat.
“Un-freaking-believable.” Wyatt stared out the window into the dark night. He wasn’t usually at a loss, but the document lying on the table in front of him shook him to his core.
“They created a contingency.” Planting his elbows on the table, he leaned forward and kneaded the back of his neck. “Not such a bad idea, all things considered.”
The current administration under President Cox was sketchy at best, if not downright corrupt. And the opposition party wasn’t much better with the top contenders in an all-out brawl to secure the primary nomination before the next election. Divisiveness throughout the country was rampant, with neighbors turning on neighbors. Rumors that factions in several states were pushing to leave the Union could no longer be dismissed as idle speculation.
“It’s a shit show.” Wyatt rose to his feet and paced to the window and back, his brain racing. Finally, he stopped to re-read the list of criteria that would trigger a supposedly peaceful takeover of the government. The seven men who had signed the document or their appointed representatives had agreed to convene to restructure a broken system only under well-defined circumstances.
Should the majority of the people in this great nation lose faith in their elected representatives. Should internal hostility and conflict threaten to tear the country asunder. Should the government under the Constitution fail to protect the rights of citizens and provide for their best interests. Should the three equal branches languish and fester, unable to fulfill their requisite purpose.
“That about sums up the current situation.”
He kept reading, his brain stalling occasionally as he digested the words. Each of the seven would receive a copy of the original, which would be signed as an executive order by the first president under the new constitution and remain concealed until such time as it was deemed necessary to produce.
Just the idea that President Cox had eyes on this document sent a chill through him. He shuddered and squinted to decipher the next part where a fold made reading difficult. A signed copy, along with one of seven silver spoons, would be bequeathed to a worthy heir prior to the signatory’s death. Fulfillment of the contingency could only move forward once all parties brought forward their spoons and unanimously agreed.
His gaze darted to the blackened piece of metal resting on the table and then back to the list of names. Which of the founding fathers passed his spoon to some distant ancestor of Uncle Hector? Below the signatures was a rough illustration of a shield with six symbols and the eye of providence in a triangle above it.
Somewhere, he’d seen a version of that exact design. Wyatt prodded his tired brain for the connection but couldn’t come up with an answer.
“I need sleep.” He glanced at his watch, and his eyes widened. “Damn.” It was pushing three in the morning.
After carefully folding the parchment, he took both it and the spoon to the safe in his office. The irony of securing them now, when they’d been sitting in a box in his great-uncle’s attic for God knew how many decades, wasn’t lost on him. He spun the dial right, left, right and opened the door. After setting the spoon and the document next to a case holding some good pieces of jewelry he’d inherited from his grandmother, the hand gun he’d purchased after a rash of home
invasions in the neighborhood, and a few important papers, he locked the safe and rose to his feet, knees cracking.
Bed. Maybe after a couple hours of sleep he’d be able to make an intelligent decision about how to proceed. Currently, his mind was mush.
“Dad. Dad!” A sharp rap sounded before the bedroom door opened. “I’m going to be late for school if you don’t get up.”
The insistent voice finally penetrated his sleep-fogged brain. He cracked open one eye and squinted against the light filtering through the blinds. A glance at the digital clock on the nightstand confirmed his daughter wasn’t exaggerating. Already after seven.
“Shit.”
“That’s another dollar.”
Bree stood in the doorway wearing an off-the-shoulder white top, shorts that displayed her long, tanned legs, a pair of flip-flops, and a scowl. He supposed the outfit was school appropriate for a fifteen-year-old. If it wasn’t, he was too tired to argue.
“We have to leave in fifteen minutes. You aren’t going to have time to shower, let alone eat. Why didn’t you get up when your alarm went off?”
“I must have fallen back asleep.” He tossed off the covers and swung his legs over the side of the bed. “I definitely need to shower.”
“Then you’d better get moving. I packed my own lunch. Come on, Dad. Let’s go!” Her voice floated back as she disappeared down the hall.
With a grunt, he levered to his feet and headed into the bathroom. After turning on the shower to heat up, he brushed his teeth, tossed the gym shorts he was wearing on the floor, and stepped under the lukewarm spray. Five minutes later, he felt nearly human. One glance in the mirror as he dressed in khaki pants and a short-sleeved, button down shirt told him he wouldn’t win any beauty contests. Purplish crescents shadowed the skin beneath his eyes, and his scruffy beard was a little too long to be fashionable. He’d shave in the car. Running his fingers through his short, brown hair to smooth it into place, he grabbed his phone, wallet, and keys off the top of the dresser and headed toward his office.
“Five minutes!” Bree shouted. “I fed Stella and took her out.”
“We’ll make it in time.” Kneeling, he spun the dial on the safe. When it clicked, he pulled the door open, reached inside, and slid the spoon into his pocket. “I’m coming.” Breezing into the kitchen a few seconds later, he stopped in front of the empty coffee pot and sighed. “You didn’t make—”
“No time.” Her brows lowered. “You look like crap. Did you stay up all night?”
“I slept for a few hours. I found something pretty exciting in that box.”
“Great. You can tell me all about it while we drive. If I’m late again—”
“I guess I’ll grab breakfast after I drop you at school.”
Bree bent to pet her dog. “Bye, Stella. I’ll see you this afternoon.”
The morning was typical for Southern California in early September. Light winds blew off the ocean a few blocks away, and the clear blue sky promised another beautiful day. Wyatt crossed the front porch of the old, bungalow style house and ran down the brick path to his baby parked in the driveway. Bree slid onto the long bench seat, shut the door with a whack, and dropped her backpack at her feet while he got in behind the wheel.
“Top up or down?”
“Down. I put my hair in a ponytail so it wouldn’t get messed up.”
“That’s my girl.” With a grin, he started the engine of his pride and joy and lowered the restored ragtop before backing out onto the street. The classic ’57 Thunderbird’s engine purred as he headed toward Santa Monica Boulevard.
She reached over to turn on the radio. “What did you find that was so exciting it kept you up half the night?”
Wyatt glanced over at his daughter as he picked up the electric razor resting on the seat between them, turned it on, and applied it to his scruffy face. “Only a document that will practically rewrite history and provide fodder for a whole series of shows. I guarantee our ratings will go through the roof.” He tapped the fingers of his free hand on the steering wheel. “However, I’ll need to do a lot of research before we can start filming.”
“Isn’t that the part you like most?”
“Yep. Ferreting out fun historic facts.” He pulled up at a stoplight and hummed along with the Led Zeppelin song playing on the radio as he shaved. “This may be the biggest story I’ve ever uncovered. As a result, No Stone Unturned will get worldwide attention.”
“A lot of people already watch it. Some of the girls at school think you’re hot.” She rolled her eyes and made gagging noises. “Do you know how embarrassing that is?”
“They should see me without the stage makeup.”
Traffic wasn’t too horrible, and they reached her Beverly Hills high school with time to spare. Bree stepped out onto the sidewalk and shut the door. “Are you picking me up later, or should I get a ride with a friend?”
He wondered if the friend she had in mind was Liam and wasn’t too sure he liked the idea of his sophomore daughter riding around with a senior. “I need to go to the studio, but hopefully I’ll be done before school lets out. I’ll text if I’m running late.”
“Okay.” She flashed a quick grin. “Bye, Dad.”
He smiled back, relieved her mood had shifted from stressed to amiable. “Kick butt on your biology test today.”
“I will.” With a wave, she joined a group of kids headed toward the imposing front doors of the school.
Wyatt put his razor down and accelerated away from the curb. Instead of heading toward the Century City studio where his show was filmed, he detoured up to Rodeo Drive. When a Bentley pulled out in front of him, he slammed on the brakes to avoid a collision and shot into the vacated spot.
“Entitled old fart!” He flipped the elderly driver the bird.
Not that he was complaining since parking was always a nightmare. Leaving the top down for what he hoped would be a quick errand, he entered the first high-end jewelry shop he came to. The air conditioning sent a chill through him as a bell dinged.
A pretty, young Asian woman in a black suit approached from behind a glass case loaded with necklaces that probably cost more than his house. “May I help you, sir? Are you looking for something special?”
“I need a good quality silver cleaner.”
Her smile faltered. “I’m afraid we don’t sell—”
He produced what he’d been told was an irresistible grin. “I’m sure you must have cleaning solutions somewhere in the back.”
“Maybe, but—”
“You’d be doing me a huge favor.”
“Sir, we—” She broke off, and her dark eyes widened. “Oh, my goodness! Are you Wyatt Stone?”
He nodded. “Do you watch my show?”
“I love No Stone Unturned.”
He could taste victory. “I’d go to the nearest superstore, but I don’t want to risk damaging a historic relic using an inferior cleaning solution.” He pulled the blackened spoon out of his pocket and held it on his palm. “This belonged to one of our founding fathers.”
Her breath escaped in a rush. “Seriously?”
“You bet.”
She glanced toward a door behind the counter. “I’ll see if I can find something for you.”
“You’re the best.” He studied the gold name tag pinned to her lapel. “Meko.”
Her smile held a hint of star-struck shyness. “I’ll be right back. There’s coffee on the table up front if you’re interested.”
“Thank you.” The second the door shut behind her, he returned the spoon to his pocket and bolted across the carpet. His hand trembled with eagerness as he poured a cup and sipped. Ambrosia.
While he drank his coffee, he strolled around the store. Several prominently displayed wedding sets reminded him of the one his ex-wife currently wore. Ostentatious was putting it mildly. The rings practically shouted trophy wife. Not at all like the dinky diamond he’d bought her straight out of college when she’d announced she was pregnan
t. Serena had definitely traded up.
The sales associate returned and handed him a small bottle. “The jeweler said this stuff is gentle but highly effective.”
“That’s terrific. How much do I owe you?”
“Nothing.” She handed him a business card. “But maybe you could plug our store on your show.”
His laugh echoed in the quiet room. “I’ll do that. Thanks, Meko.”
“Have a great day, Mr. Stone.”
“You, too.” He returned the china cup to the tray beside the pot and let the door swish shut behind him. The morning was already heating up, and the breeze swayed the fronds on the row of palm trees marching down the center of the street. He’d get something to eat and then head to the studio where his persuasion skills would really be put to the test.
His producer—not so fondly referred to as the shark by both the on-air talent and the crew—wasn’t going to be happy about inserting a plea to their viewing public at the end of the next show scheduled to air. Which would mean re-editing the piece to allow for the necessary time.
With a shrug, he slid into his car and started the engine. Rita would get over it. His star was on the rise, and there was no telling how high he could go.
Chapter Two
Talia Davis was having a shitty day, despite the margarita and plate of tacos in front of her. Actually, her entire week had been pretty crappy, and she didn’t foresee an improvement anytime soon. Not when she had to face GQ every stinking day at work and know he was going home every night to a woman who wasn’t her.
Arden reached across the table, laid a hand on her arm, and gave her a sympathetic smile. Six months pregnant, the woman practically glowed with happiness. In fact, all three of the women she considered her best friends were disgustingly, happily married. Which wasn’t improving her mood in the least.
“Are you hanging in there?”
Ominous Legacy (Counterstrike Book 4) Page 2