by Rachel Caine
“I’m all kibbled out,” she said. “I think I just need to sleep, but thank you. And thanks for not making me feel … second-class.”
“You’re assuredly not,” he said, and nodded to her before closing the door behind him.
That lasted about two full seconds before there was another rap on the wood, and when she looked out, McCallister was there. He cleared his throat. “So you’ll be all right.” It wasn’t a question, really. “As I said, I’m two rooms down. The panic button is next to your bed. Press it if you’re in any way alarmed, and Liam will come running. So will I.”
“Why do you work for Pharmadene?” she asked, as he reached for the doorknob. “You must have a reason. It’s not like you need the job. If I lived here, I’d never clip on some corporate badge and wear a monkey suit.”
He considered giving her an honest answer—she could see that in the way he looked at her—but then he shook his head. “We’ll discuss all that some other time; it’s a long story. For now, please get some sleep. Liam will make sure you’re ready for breakfast. We’ll be leaving right after that.”
“Going where?”
“Hopefully,” he said, “to someone who can help you more than I can.”
“Patrick?” She saw him glance back over his shoulder as he opened the bedroom door. “Back at my apartment, we—”
He shook his head, and left without a word.
“—didn’t do anything,” she finished softly, as the door shut. “Right. Professional relationship it is. No problem.”
Despite the amazing down mattress and soft sheets and feathery duvet, neither she nor Mr. French slept much at all.
The morning dawned soft and bright, with those kind of cheerful chirping country bird sounds that Bryn thought existed only in the movies. She felt tired, but oddly at peace, and swung open the window to look out at the unbelievable view of the manicured, jewel-perfect gardens. That lasted about a minute, until Mr. French marched to the closed (and locked) bedroom door, whined, and she remembered that mansions probably didn’t come with convenient doggy doors. She was pulling on her robe and slippers and wondering what the rules were about wandering around this place looking ratty when a soft knock came at the door.
She unlocked it and peeked out. Liam smiled politely and said, “May I take the young lad for a walk outside?”
Oh. “Well … if you don’t mind …”
“Absolutely no trouble, Miss Davis. Will you want coffee or tea with your breakfast?”
Right on cue, she remembered her caffeine deficit, and her stomach rumbled. “Coffee,” she said. “And just a bagel, please. Oh—Liam?”
“Yes, miss.”
“What’s the story about this house?”
Liam regarded her for a few seconds without replying, then leaned against the door and said, “I’m not sure that Mr. McCallister shouldn’t tell you himself.”
“Mr. McCallister has a policy of telling me absolutely nothing, and it’s getting pretty old.”
“He does tend to be very private,” Liam agreed. “Very well. His great-grandfather was a hardscrabble railroad man who made a fortune, which his grandson set about squandering. Luckily, his granddaughter was more astute, and by the time Mr. McCallister’s father was born, the fortune had been successfully defended.”
“He said he had a brother.”
“He did.”
She waited, but he didn’t expand on it. “And?”
“I believe Patrick told you that Jamie died.”
“It sounds like neither one of you wants to tell me the truth about it.”
“So it does,” Liam said. “I should walk the dog, miss. Go down to breakfast when you’re ready.”
He left before she could think of any better way to pry information out of him. Not that she’d have succeeded. Liam and Patrick both seemed to have taken vows of silence on the subject.
Freshly scrubbed and dressed, she came downstairs to find Mr. French comfortably snuggled into a doggy bed near the door, looking deliriously happy. Liam showed her to the Small Room, which apparently was where the breakfast buffet was laid out; the room wasn’t small, and it held enough food to take care of a fairly major armed camp. “I just wanted a bagel,” she said weakly, surveying the ranks of gleaming serving trays. Liam pulled out a chair at the table, and she saw a steaming china cup and a bagel ready for her, just the way she’d asked. “Oh.” She sank down, and was taking her first sip as Patrick McCallister walked in.
I made this man sleep on my ratty old Sears couch, she thought. Covered with a Wal-Mart blanket. In my six-hundred-a-month apartment. I made him eat peanut butter and crackers off of paper plates.
And he smiled at me.
She wasn’t sure which emotion that boiled up in her was the most apt: a vague sense of shame for being … not part of this world; anger, for making her feel inadequate; or surprise, because once again, Patrick McCallister looked like a real person when he smiled.
Or a secret, unsettling sense of delight that there was warmth in the smile, despite everything.
Bryn shook it off and forced herself to look at him analytically. He looked like he was wearing an identical suit, shirt, and tie to what he’d had on yesterday, only these were spotless and wrinkle-free. Maybe Liam had some kind of overnight cleaning service, too. Even his shoes were shiny. He filled up a breakfast plate, moving fast but gracefully, and took a seat across from Bryn.
“Good morning,” he said. “Did you sleep well?”
“Yes,” she said. “Sure. Why wouldn’t I? Fast Freddy rose from the dead and someone is apparently climbing sheer walls like a lizard to get at me. Nothing to keep me awake there.”
“He won’t be climbing them here,” Liam said, sounding absolutely convinced of it. “Motion sensors on the walls, security at every possible entrance. Constant monitoring. You’re quite safe here, miss.”
Before she had a chance to feel better about that, McCallister said, “She’s not staying. We’ll be leaving right after breakfast.”
“I see.” Liam’s eyebrows went up just a little. “Will you be needing anything in the way of supplies?”
McCallister flat-out grinned at that. “I’m starting to wonder if you think being a butler means that you’re Alfred and I’m Bruce Wayne. Do we have a Batcave?”
“Once again, I’m not a butler, sir. I’m an estate administrator. And we do not have a Batcave that I’m aware of, but I can certainly check the basements just in case. I was speaking more of providing you with a packed lunch. Perhaps some coffee in a thermos.”
“Ah,” McCallister said, and took a bite of bacon, which Bryn was starting to regret not having. “Lunch and coffee would be fine. Thanks.”
“And for the lady?”
“Whatever you’re doing is fine,” she said hastily. What did rich people eat for lunch? Finger sandwiches with the crusts cut off? Oysters? She had no idea. This place made Mr. Fairview’s fancy French lunch look like the corner deli had slapped it together. “Where are we going?”
That last was directed at McCallister, and he chewed and swallowed a large bite of eggs before he said, “I told you that I had a contact who might be able to help with your … unique problem. A therapist. We’ll be visiting him shortly.”
Again, he was talking in code, and the reality descended hard on her shoulders, like hands pushing her into the chair: someone was always watching. Listening. Even here. No matter where she went, she couldn’t shake off Pharmadene’s leash around her neck.
She took a bite of bagel. It was probably delicious, but she tasted almost nothing. At least it would keep her going, along with the coffee. “I need my shot,” she said.
“You’ll get it once we’re at the therapist’s.”
“You have it with you?”
“Yes. I keep two with me at all times in case of emergency.” When she frowned, he continued. “If you get severely injured, you may require a booster shot. I don’t want to be unprepared, as long as you’re with me.”
The smile went back to a tight, controlled, almost humorless expression. “Your problem is assuming you could knock me out.” She knew that glint in the eye; McCallister wasn’t confident because he was arrogant. He was confident because he had historical evidence he was right. “And I don’t think one more day of running would take you out of the reach of Pharmadene.”
He was right about that. Without resources, she’d be delaying the inevitable, and very messy, end. Pharmadene wouldn’t even have to chase her, unless they really wanted to. They could just literally let her rot.
Sucks to be me.
Bryn ate her bagel in silence, and by the time she was finished, Liam had already neatly packed her overnight bag and loaded it in McCallister’s car. He even included a new dog bed for Mr. French to travel in comfort. Lunch was in modular little boxes. “I think he is Alfred,” she said to McCallister, who was downing the last of his coffee as he watched.
“Actually, I often wonder if he’s Batman.” McCallister handed Liam back the cup and saucer and opened the passenger door for her. “Time to go.”
She let Mr. French jump in and take his seat in the dog bed before slipping in herself. McCallister got behind the wheel, and in ten seconds or less they were heading down the gravel path. Bryn let the crunch of the tires fill the silence for another five seconds before she said, “Your family has a shitload of money.”
“That’s one way to put it.”
“But it’s not your money?”
“I told you. I’m the trust administrator. I decide where the money is spent, but I’m not allowed to touch it personally.”
“Is that why you took the job at Pharmadene?”
“Even ex-rich people need salaries.”
“But why there?”
He didn’t glance at her. His focus stayed on the long, winding road down to the gates. “I don’t think we need to discuss my job, Bryn. It’s not healthy for either of us to dig too deep into the details.”
“But back at Joe’s you said—”
“Bryn.” He cut her off, cold as a guillotine blade. “Change the subject. Now.”
She hadn’t been going to spill anything top-secret, damn it; she wasn’t that stupid. It offended her that he thought she would. “Fine. Tell me about your family.”
“Pick something else.” He finally reached the estate’s gates, which silently opened for them, and they hit the open road. She could sense his frustration in the way he edged the accelerator up past legal speed.
“Oh, no, you already warned me off of one topic. Liam said your family got its money the old-fashioned way.”
“By oppressing others? Yes, there was a lot of opportunity for that around the early industrial age, and they took full advantage. Great-Granddad was a rival of Rockefeller for a while, only he lacked the civic responsibility. It’s not a glamorous story, Bryn.”
“It is to someone whose biggest family celebrity was a cousin who made it to the second round of American Idol. Nobody’s ever going to mention the Davises in the same breath as the Rockefellers.”
“That’s almost certainly a good thing.”
She laughed. “And you really don’t have a clue what it’s like to grow up poor, McCallister.”
“I know what it’s like to grow up—” He stopped himself, shook his head, and said, “Let’s not talk about this.”
“Why not?”
“Because it’s not germane to the problems you face.”
“I didn’t think you wanted to talk about my problems. What with all the secrets.”
To her surprise, he laughed. It was a strange, almost humorless little laugh, but closer than she’d ever heard from him. “You can be infuriatingly right; did anyone ever tell you that?”
“I can safely say it’s not a problem that’s really bothered me so far in my life.”
“All right then,” he said. There were crinkles at the corners of his eyes, and a ghost of a smile on his lips. “You tell me about your family.”
“You’re kidding.”
“No.”
“You probably know everything about all of them.”
“I know facts. Tell me what they’re actually like.”
So she did, as the miles hummed by under the tires: Annie, her sweet but financially incompetent sister; her brother Tate’s current deployment to Afghanistan; her older sister Grace, the know-it-all, working as a department manager at Wal-Mart, but with embarrassing secrets; George, the asshole Bryn never spoke to, who was still the apple of her mother’s eye because he ran his own business; and, last, Kyle. “But you know about Kyle,” she said.
“Do I?”
She sighed. “He’s serving fifteen years for armed robbery. Don’t tell me you don’t know about my big brother. I barely know him, though. He took off when he was fifteen years old, and I was just a kid. He was smart, though. Smarter than George, for sure. He got in with bad people after he left home.”
“Isn’t this where you tell me he’s not a bad guy?”
“No. As far as I know, he’s a hard-ass Aryan Brotherhood member. It’d be stupid to say he’s not a bad guy.”
McCallister let that lie for a moment before he said, “What about Sharon?”
“What about her?”
“You didn’t tell me about her.”
“I didn’t really know her, either.” That was a lie, though; Bryn remembered Sharon well. Sharon was pretty, with flowing red-blond hair, a teasing laugh, big lovely eyes. “She was a lot older than I was.”
“You refer to her in past tense, you know.”
“I know. She’s dead. I mean, the family party line is that she’s missing, but she’s been missing for a long time, and you know the odds on that. If a pretty eighteen-year-old girl with no history of behavior issues goes missing …”
McCallister nodded slowly. “Still, she could be out there somewhere.”
“If she is, she’s got no interest in contacting any of us. Not even Mom, and they were close right up until the day she walked out of our lives.” Bryn took in a deep breath. “No. She’s dead. Whether it was an accident or murder, she’s lying out there somewhere, waiting to be found. I know it, and so do you.”
“I’m sorry,” he said. It sounded like he meant it.
“Then it’s your turn,” she said. “I’ve been talking for more than an hour, spilling my entire family history. What about you?”
“Bryn—”
“I’m not asking for classified secrets. Just tell me about your family.”
He didn’t want to—she could see it—but he finally said, “Nothing much to tell. Rich people are remarkably boring; they’re either big philanthropists, like my mother, or self-absorbed, like my father. Either way, the effect was the same. They didn’t spend much time at home. I had more in common with my tutors and nannies than I did with my parents.” He shrugged. “I’m not trying to be poor-little-rich-boy about it. It’s what it was. My mother was a good person; she just felt that the family’s responsibility was to do good with what we had, so she was always out at fundraisers, contributing to causes, attending charity events. She was beautiful, and I think she would have made a ruthless businesswoman if she’d been required to do that. She wasn’t.”
“And your father?”
Patrick just shrugged and said nothing, but she saw the skin tighten at the corners of his eyes. Not a smile this time—something else. Something darker.
“Liam said your brother’s name was Jamie.”
“That’s right.”
“And?”
“And what?”
“And what happened?” Nothing. He might have been a mannequin, for all the emotional response he gave to that. “Oh, come on. I spilled about everything, including Grace’s secret adoption. I went all talk-show about it. And you won’t even give me more than his name?”
McCallister said, “What made you go into the funeral busi
ness?”
“Oh, no, you’re going to tell me something. No changing the channel. Was he older or younger?”
“Older,” McCallister finally said, after what seemed like a pretty fierce internal argument. “Two years older.”
“Did you get along?”
“I was the younger brother of a filthy rich family. The surplus child. No, we didn’t get along.” From the way McCallister’s hands tightened on the steering wheel, then deliberately relaxed, that was putting it mildly. “Jamie died. That’s all the story you’re going to get.”
“And you were disinherited.” He didn’t bother to answer that one at all. Silence fell, deep and uncomfortable, and Bryn finally sighed and said, “When I was in Iraq, I saw a lot of death. Not just our people, but the Iraqis, too. I didn’t mind helping gather bodies after a bombing; some couldn’t handle it, but I could. It felt like something I could do to restore some kind of dignity to them. So when I came back, I thought … I thought it might be a good thing to do for a living. There’s something honorable about it. Something real.”
McCallister looked over at her, nodded, and said, “I was in the military, too. I can kill, but gathering bodies—that always bothered me. It takes a special kind of strength to devote yourself to that.”
“True believers,” she said, and smiled.
“What?”
“Something one of my instructors said. Two kinds of people in the funeral business: true believers and freaks. I guess I’m a true believer, after all. Except that what you did to me does make me a bit of a freak, I suppose.”
“Different kind of freak, perhaps, than what he was referring to.”
“Yeah. Fast Freddy was the kind he was talking about. Me, I’m … life-challenged.”
“I think that could apply to any of us, Bryn.” McCallister downshifted, and the car slowed for him to make a turn onto the interstate. “We’ve got another hour, if you’d like to take a nap. Mr. French has already beaten you to it.”