Bitter Bite (Elemental Assassin #14) Read online

  I suddenly wanted to confess everything to her, but still, I hesitated, shifting on my feet again, moving the box from one arm to the other. Despite Bria’s desire to help, I was still me, still the suspicious assassin Fletcher had molded me into, one who knew that secrets could be more dangerous than anything else.

  Sure, I had a burning desire to know every little thing that was in the box, especially since the old man had carved my spider rune into it, a clear message that he had wanted me to find it. But an even bigger part of me was worried about what might be inside—what dark, ugly, painful truths Fletcher had gone to such great lengths to bury, literally.

  Truths that could hurt Finn.

  Bria sensed that I was wavering, and she kept her gaze steady on mine. “Let me help you. Let me carry some of the load. Please, Gin.”

  Her voice was even softer this time, but her tone was sincere, strong, and filled with understanding. She got to her feet, stepped in front of me, and held out her arms, waiting for me to let her help, waiting for me to let her in.

  And just like that, all the resistance drained out of me.

  I slid the silverstone box into her arms. Then I stepped back and massaged first one arm, then the other, trying to ease the dull ache that had built up in my muscles. Funny, but I hadn’t realized how heavy the box was until now.

  Bria nodded at me, then put the box down on the coffee table, right next to Deirdre’s file. She eyed my spider rune carved into the top of the box but didn’t say anything or make a move to open it. Instead, she waited while I shrugged out of my dirt-and-blood-crusted jacket, spread a blanket out on the couch, and plopped down on it. Bria dragged the coffee table over to the couch and sat down next to me.

  We both stared at the box, quiet and still. The only sounds were the steady tick-tick-ticks of various clocks in the house, along with the whistle of the wind whipping around the windows.

  I drew in a breath. “Remember Raymond Pike and how he bragged that he was working with what sounded like a whole group of people?”

  “Yeah . . .”

  “Well, I found out who one of them was.”

  “And?”

  “Her name is Deirdre Shaw.” It took me a second to force out the rest of my confession. “And she is Finn’s not-so-dead mother.”

  Bria’s eyes bulged, and her mouth dropped open into a wide O. For a moment, she was frozen in place, her entire body stiff with shock. She sucked in a breath, then exhaled and shook her head, as though she were trying to rattle my words right out of her mind. Her gaze flicked to the file on the table, then the box, then back to the file.

  “Are you sure?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

  “I’m sure. I found that file in Fletcher’s office, hidden in a secret desk drawer, as if he didn’t want anyone to discover it ever. That file claims that Deirdre Shaw is Finn’s mother and that she is very much alive.” I paused, once again having to force out the words. “So tonight I went to Blue Ridge Cemetery to dig up her grave to see if she was actually buried in it . . .”

  I handed Bria the file, then told her everything that had happened tonight. My sister stayed quiet through my cold, clipped recitation, absorbing and analyzing everything I said as she read through Fletcher’s file.

  By the time I was finished, she’d gone through all the information. She studied a recent photo of Deirdre in the file, then leaned down, staring at the rune Fletcher had inked onto the folder tab, that heart made of jagged icicles.

  Bria frowned and tapped her finger against the symbol. “This might sound crazy, and it’s certainly not going to make you feel any better, but I’ve seen that rune somewhere before.”

  “Yeah, it was on that letter you found in Pike’s penthouse. The one you gave to Lorelei Parker, along with the rest of her half brother’s stuff. Lorelei gave me a copy of it. There was no name on the letter, just that rune. I recognized the symbol and started digging through Fletcher’s files. That’s how I found the information on Deirdre.”

  Bria shook her head. “No, I’ve seen that rune somewhere else. I thought it looked familiar when I first saw Pike’s letter. So I did a search in the police rune databases, trying to figure out where I knew it from. But there was no mention of anything like it in the databases, so I wasn’t able to track it down. Still, I know it from somewhere.”

  I chewed my lip, trying to think of where Bria might have possibly come across Deirdre’s rune before, but of course, I didn’t have an answer. She was right. Her having seen the rune before made me even more uneasy.

  “So what’s in the box?” Bria asked. “And why did Fletcher leave it in Deirdre’s grave?”

  “Time to find out.”

  I dragged the box to the edge of the table. No locks or latches adorned the silverstone, but it was still securely sealed. So I palmed a knife and worked the tip of the blade into the seam that ran between the lid and the rest of the box. I ran my knife around the entire seam, wiggling the tip back and forth. It didn’t want to open any more than Deirdre’s casket had, but I finally managed to split the seam. A loud pop sounded, like when you cracked open a pickle jar, as though the box had been vacuum-sealed. Maybe it had been.

  I put my knife down, grabbed the lid, and lifted it off the box before setting it off to one side. Beside me, Bria leaned forward, as curious to see what was inside as I was.

  The answer?

  Photos.

  Dozens of photos, all of them old, slightly yellow, and faded, with smooth, worn edges, as though someone—Fletcher—had rubbed his fingers over them time and time again in thought.

  And Deirdre Shaw was in every single one of them.

  In the photos, she was young, twenty or so, and quite beautiful, with pale blue eyes and long golden hair. The first photo showed her in a grassy field, wearing a blue sundress, with a crown of blue peonies perched on her head, as though she were a fairy-tale princess. She looked at the camera out of the corner of her eye, as if she were too shy to enjoy having her picture taken, although her lips were turned up into a small, satisfied smile.

  The next few photos were of Deirdre and Fletcher together, holding hands, walking through the woods, even sharing a chocolate milkshake at the Pork Pit. It was obvious that this was in the beginning of their relationship, because they were staring dreamily into each other’s eyes. They made a lovely couple, Deirdre slim, blond, and beautiful, Fletcher tall, strong, and handsome, with his dark brown hair and green eyes.

  But as I looked through more of the photos, they slowly started to change.

  Fletcher remained as happy as ever, but Deidre smiled less and less in the pictures, especially as her stomach grew larger and rounder, and it became apparent that she was pregnant. One shot showed Deirdre deep into her pregnancy. Fletcher had his arm slung around her shoulder and was smiling at the camera, but Deirdre’s expression seemed more like a grimace than a grin, as though she had screwed on a smile just to have her picture taken.

  And finally, I saw the first and only photo of Finn.

  It must have been taken a few days after he was born, because he was just a tiny, blanket-wrapped bundle, cradled in Fletcher’s arms, his sleeping face turned toward the camera. Fletcher was positively beaming, his face stretched into an enormous grin. Deirdre was standing next to him, looking at Finn, but her eyes were empty, and her face was strangely blank, as though she were staring at someone else’s baby instead of her own son.

  That last photo made even more cold worry pool in my chest, as though my heart were made of the same jagged icicles as Deirdre’s rune.

  “It’s like a chronicle of their relationship,” Bria murmured, studying the photos as I handed them to her one by one. “Only without saying how or when they finally broke up.”

  “I’m guessing that part didn’t make for such a pretty picture.”

  Bria set the photos aside, and I fished out the other objects in the box. An engagement ring with a hole where the diamond should be. An empty, cracked, heart-shaped perfum
e bottle that still smelled faintly of peonies. A blue cameo of a mother holding a child, split down the middle into two pieces.

  “Mementos Fletcher saved from happier times?” Bria suggested.

  “Maybe,” I said. “Or maybe they’re a message.”

  She held up the cameo pieces. “What kind of message does a broken pendant send?”

  “Not a good one.”

  A soft blue baby blanket was also tucked into the box, with Finn’s name stitched across the bottom in white letters. I lifted up the blanket, expecting it to be the final thing in the box, but two items were buried underneath it, two letters in sealed envelopes, one addressed to me and the other to Finn.

  I gasped, but Bria was looking through the photos again, so she didn’t notice my surprise. I dropped the blanket back down where it had been, hiding the letters. I loved my sister, but I wanted to read Fletcher’s words in private, wanted to have some time to myself to think about them and digest them. Not to mention Finn’s letter. I didn’t even know what to do with that right now.

  “That’s it?” Bria asked. “Just a baby blanket? That’s all there is?”

  “Yeah,” I lied. “Why?”

  She shrugged. “All this stuff is interesting, for sure, but there’s nothing here that’s earth-shattering. Overall, it seems a bit . . . disappointing.”

  “You’re not the one with a suddenly not-so-dead mother.”

  “True,” Bria said. “But Fletcher has left you clues and letters before. Far more detailed ones. This seems like a keepsake box more than anything else. I just thought there would be something more. Records, certificates, maybe even a diary that would tell you about Deirdre, like why she apparently faked her own death and left town and why Fletcher went along with it.”

  I shrugged, making sure not to look at the baby blanket and the two letters buried under it. “The old man always left me the information that he thought was the most important. In this case, maybe he thought it was the pictures. Maybe he wanted me to see Deirdre as she was back then.”

  “Well, you knew Fletcher best. Maybe things will make more sense after you’ve gone through everything again.”

  Bria bit her lip, dropped her gaze to her hands, and started twisting her two rune rings around on her fingers, something she only did when she was thinking hard or worried about something. Her own giveaway, just like quietness was mine.

  After a few seconds, her hands stilled, and she looked at me. “So what do we tell Finn?”

  I scrubbed my hands over my face, but the motion did nothing to ease the dull ache in my temples. “I don’t know. I was hoping that I’d be able to track her down and do some reconnaissance before I told him anything. But so far, she’s been a complete ghost. No driver’s license, no property or tax records, no trace of a Deirdre Shaw anywhere in Ashland.” I gestured at the box, photos, and other items. “Even with all of this, all I really know about her is that she’s not dead like she’s supposed to be.”

  “You have to tell Finn that his mother is alive,” Bria said in a soft voice. “He’s already going to be upset and hurt that you didn’t tell him the second you found out. The longer you wait now, the worse it will be. You know that.”

  I did know that, but that didn’t mean I liked it. How do you break something like this to someone? How do you go about rocking the foundation of his world to its very core? Changing everything he thought he knew about his parents? All that would have been bad enough if this was a stranger. But this was Finn. The guy I’d been raised with. The guy I had been through so much with. The man who was my brother in all the ways that truly mattered.

  I didn’t know, and now I was in the damned awkward position of having to find out.

  “Well,” I said, trying to make a joke of things, the way Finn would have if our positions had been reversed. “I say we ply him with food and booze and then spring the news on him. Have all his favorite things around to help soften the shock.”

  Bria nodded. “That’s actually not a bad idea. We’re supposed to go to a cocktail party at his bank tomorrow night. Finn is schmoozing with some new client he wants me to meet. You and Owen could tag along, and we could all go to Underwood’s for dinner afterward. Tell him everything and then figure out what our next move is.”

  I winced.

  “What’s wrong?” Her eyes narrowed. “Wait a second. You haven’t told Owen about this either?”

  I winced again. “I haven’t told anyone anything, except you. I wanted to actually know what I was talking about before I spilled the beans. But all I have is this.” I waved my hand over the faded photos and cracked mementos. “Not exactly a whole lot of beans to spill.”

  “Still,” Bria said, “it all has to mean something. Fletcher wouldn’t have buried all these things in Deirdre’s casket if they weren’t important. If it wasn’t some kind of message.”

  I sighed. “You might be right, but I have no idea what he was thinking. Not this time.”

  Bria picked up the folder and stared at Deirdre’s icicle-heart rune again. “Well, whatever Fletcher was trying to tell you, I have a bad feeling about this, Gin.”

  My gaze dropped to the photo of Fletcher holding Finn, and Deirdre with that cold, blank look on her face. “Yeah. Me too.”

  3

  Bria promised to tell Finn that Owen and I would be crashing the party tomorrow night. Then she bundled up, and I walked her to the front door. The snow had stopped while we were talking, leaving three inches of white, fluffy powder coating the ground.

  I waited until I heard her car pull out onto the road at the bottom of the ridge before I shut the door and headed back to the den.

  I stopped in the doorway and stared at the casket box, where the two letters from Fletcher were hidden under Finn’s baby blanket. But instead of tossing the blanket aside and ripping into my letter, I sat down on the couch and carefully went through all the photos and other items again.

  I studied each image in turn—not just the pictures themselves but all the corners, edges, and backs, in case Fletcher had scribbled a note or left some other clue I hadn’t spotted. Nothing.

  I did the same thing with the diamond-less engagement ring, the empty perfume bottle, and the broken cameo. Once again, a big fat lot of nothing. No runes, no symbols, not even a maker’s mark stamped on any of them.

  I pulled the baby blanket out of the box and ran my fingers over the fabric, but it was just a blanket, the cotton so soft and thin you could practically see through it. Three strikes, and I was out.

  Except for the letters.

  I put the blanket down and finally pulled the two letters out of the box. I studied the envelopes as carefully as I had everything else, but they were plain except for the single word on each of them. Gin on one and Finn on the other, each written in the old man’s distinctive, spidery scrawl.

  Finn’s letter wasn’t mine to open, so I wrapped it back up in the baby blanket and set it aside. I turned the other envelope over and over again in my hands, as though I might suddenly see something different besides my name inked on the front. Then I picked up my knife and sliced open the top, trying to ignore the sudden churning of my stomach.

  A single sheet of paper was tucked inside. The faint scent of peonies tickled my nose as I pulled out the letter and unfolded it, reading the old man’s words.

  Gin,

  If you are reading this, then I am gone—but Deirdre Shaw is back in Ashland. I don’t know exactly what brought you to her grave. If you found the file hidden in my office, if Deirdre made some move against you, or if something else entirely drove you to look in her casket. But you’ve found the box. The things inside are all that I have left of Deirdre. Small, hollow, fragile things, but I hope that you’ll share them with Finn when the time is right.

  I could tell you many stories about Deirdre. How we met. How happy she made me. How much I loved her.

  How the bitter bite of her betrayal almost destroyed me.

  But none of that really matters. A
ll that matters is that she is back in Ashland, which means that she is a danger to you and especially to Finn. No matter what she says, no matter what she does, no matter what lies she tells, remember this—the only person Deirdre Shaw has ever cared about is herself.

  And her rune perfectly matches her own cold, cold heart.

  Watch out for Finn. He’ll need you after everything is over and Deirdre has done whatever foul, manipulative thing she’s planning. Give him the second letter once she’s gone. You’ll understand why then.

  I love you both so much.

  Now and always,

  Fletcher

  I read the letter a second time, then a third. Fletcher hadn’t given me any specifics, but he didn’t really need to. Deirdre being a ghost for so long told me the most important part of the story: she didn’t care enough about her own son to tell him that she was alive.

  Curiosity burned in my heart, and my fingers itched to grab Finn’s letter and slice it open, but I pushed down the urge. Fletcher had wanted me to save it for Finn, and I would honor the old man’s words and wishes.

  Even if I still had no idea where Deirdre Shaw was. Or when or even if she might appear in Ashland—and Finn’s life.

  * * *

  Despite how late it was and how emotionally drained I felt, I couldn’t leave everything on the table for just anyone to traipse in and find, especially not before I’d talked to Finn.

  So I slid the two letters from Fletcher in between the pages of a copy of Diamonds Are Forever, the latest book I was reading for the spy literature course I was taking at Ashland Community College. Then I gathered up the photos and mementos and placed them all back inside the casket box. I crossed the den and crawled into the empty fireplace. I stood on my tiptoes, hefted up the box, and shoved it onto a secret ledge high inside the stone column.

  Once everything was secreted away, I headed upstairs to take a shower and wash off all the blood and grime. By the time my head finally touched the pillows, it was after two in the morning, but my sleep was fitful, and I spent the rest of the night tossing, turning, and worrying about how Finn was going to react to all of this.