Wildfire
Page 3
“One moment,” I told Rynda and got up.
Grandma grabbed my arm with one hand, grabbed Mom’s wrist with her other hand, and dragged us down the hallway all the way to the end, as far from the kitchen as we could get.
“Children?” I glanced at Mom.
“Your sisters are watching them. A boy and a girl.”
“Have the two of you lost your damn minds?” Grandma Frida hissed.
“She isn’t lying,” I said. “Her husband is really gone.”
“I expect that of her!” Grandma Frida pointed at me with her thumb, while glaring at my mother. “But you ought to know better, Penelope.”
“That woman is at the end of her rope,” Mom said. “How much do you think it cost her to come here? This is what we do. We help people like her.”
“Exactly!” Grandma Frida hissed. “She’s at the end of her rope. She’s beautiful, rich, helpless, and she’s desperately looking for someone to save her. And she’s Rogan’s ex-fiancée. There is no way Rogan and Rynda won’t be spending time together if Nevada takes this case.”
I stared at her.
“She’s a man magnet.” Grandma Frida balled her hands into fists. “They eat that helpless rescue-me crap up. Her husband has been gone for three days. If he hasn’t run off, he’s probably dead. She’ll need consoling. She’ll be looking for a shoulder to cry on, a big strong shoulder. Do I need to spell it out? You’re about to serve your boyfriend to her on a silver platter!”
Rynda was very beautiful and very helpless. I wanted to help her. I knew Rogan would too.
“It’s not like that. He broke off their engagement.”
Grandma Frida shook her head. “You told me they knew each other for years, since they were little kids. That kind of thing doesn’t just go away. Rogan’s people know it too; that’s why they didn’t give her any information. You’re playing with fire, Nevada. Cut her loose. Let somebody else take care of her. She’s a Prime. She’s rich. She isn’t your problem, unless you make her your problem.”
I looked at Mom.
“Third rule,” she said.
When Dad and Mom started the agency, they had only three rules: first, once we were paid, we stayed bought; second, we did everything we could to not break the law; and third, at the end of the day, we had to be able to look our reflection in the eye. I could live with Olivia’s death. I had nightmares about it, but it was justified. Throwing Rynda out now, when she sat at our kitchen table, was beyond me. Where would she go?
“If Rynda’s crying will make Rogan break up with me, then our relationship wouldn’t last anyway.”
Most of me believed the words that came out of my mouth, but a small, petty part didn’t. That was okay. I was human, and I was entitled to a little bit of insecurity. But I was damned if I let it dictate my actions.
“Thank you, Grandma, but I’ve got it.”
Grandma Frida threw her hands up in disgust. “When your heart breaks, don’t come crying to me.”
“I will anyway.” I hugged her.
“Egh . . .” She made a show of trying to knock me off, then hugged me back.
I opened the door to the office and started down the hallway toward my desk and laptop that waited on it.
“It’s James,” Grandma Frida said mournfully behind me. “He ruined all of my practical grandchildren with his altruism.”
Mom didn’t answer. Dad had been dead seven years, but hearing his name still hurt her. It still hurt me.
I grabbed the laptop, a notepad, and the new client folder just in case, walked back into the kitchen, sat down at the table, and opened my laptop. A few keystrokes told me Bern was home and online.
I fired off a quick email. Please send me the basics on Brian Sherwood ASAP. I set the laptop aside and switched to the writing pad and a pen. People minded notes on paper a lot less than a laptop or being recorded, and I needed Rynda to relax. She was already keyed up.
“Let’s start at the beginning.”
“You don’t like me,” Rynda said. “I felt it back when we first met in the ballroom. You were jealous of me.”
“Yes.” That’s what I get for deciding to take on an empath as a client.
“And when you walked in and saw me, you felt pity and fear.”
“Yes.”
“But you are going to help me anyway. Why? It’s not guilt. Guilt is like plunging into a dark well. I would’ve felt that.”
“You tell me.”
Her eyes narrowed. Magic brushed me, feather-light. “Compassion,” she said quietly. “And duty. Why would you feel a sense of duty toward me?”
“Have you ever held a job?”
She frowned. “No. We don’t need the extra money.”
That must be nice. “Do you have any hobbies? Any passions?”
“I . . . make sculptures.”
“Do you sell them?”
“No. They’re nothing spectacular. I’ve never participated in any exhibits.”
“Then why do you keep making them?”
She blinked. “It makes me happy.”
“Being a private investigator makes me happy. I’m not just doing it for the money. I’m doing it because sometimes I get to help people. Right now, you need help.”
The laptop clicked. A new email, from Bern, popped into my inbox. Brian Sherwood, 32, second son of House Sherwood, Prime, herbamagos. Principal business: Sherwood BioCore. Estimated personal worth: $30 million. Wife: Rynda (Charles), 29. Children: Jessica, 6, and Kyle, 4. Siblings: Edward Sherwood, 38, Angela Sherwood, 23.
Brian Sherwood was a plant mage. Rynda was an empath with a secondary telekenetic talent. That didn’t add up. Primes usually married within their branch of magic. As Rogan once eloquently explained to me in his falling-on-his-sword speech, preserving and increasing magic within the family drove most of their marriage decisions.
I looked back to her. “I don’t know yet if I’m your best option. It may be that you would be better served by a different agency. But before we talk about any of that, walk me through your Thursday. You woke up. Then what happened?”
She focused. “I got up. Brian was already awake. He’d taken a shower. I made breakfast and fixed the lunches for him and the kids.”
Grandma grabbed my arm with one hand, grabbed Mom’s wrist with her other hand, and dragged us down the hallway all the way to the end, as far from the kitchen as we could get.
“Children?” I glanced at Mom.
“Your sisters are watching them. A boy and a girl.”
“Have the two of you lost your damn minds?” Grandma Frida hissed.
“She isn’t lying,” I said. “Her husband is really gone.”
“I expect that of her!” Grandma Frida pointed at me with her thumb, while glaring at my mother. “But you ought to know better, Penelope.”
“That woman is at the end of her rope,” Mom said. “How much do you think it cost her to come here? This is what we do. We help people like her.”
“Exactly!” Grandma Frida hissed. “She’s at the end of her rope. She’s beautiful, rich, helpless, and she’s desperately looking for someone to save her. And she’s Rogan’s ex-fiancée. There is no way Rogan and Rynda won’t be spending time together if Nevada takes this case.”
I stared at her.
“She’s a man magnet.” Grandma Frida balled her hands into fists. “They eat that helpless rescue-me crap up. Her husband has been gone for three days. If he hasn’t run off, he’s probably dead. She’ll need consoling. She’ll be looking for a shoulder to cry on, a big strong shoulder. Do I need to spell it out? You’re about to serve your boyfriend to her on a silver platter!”
Rynda was very beautiful and very helpless. I wanted to help her. I knew Rogan would too.
“It’s not like that. He broke off their engagement.”
Grandma Frida shook her head. “You told me they knew each other for years, since they were little kids. That kind of thing doesn’t just go away. Rogan’s people know it too; that’s why they didn’t give her any information. You’re playing with fire, Nevada. Cut her loose. Let somebody else take care of her. She’s a Prime. She’s rich. She isn’t your problem, unless you make her your problem.”
I looked at Mom.
“Third rule,” she said.
When Dad and Mom started the agency, they had only three rules: first, once we were paid, we stayed bought; second, we did everything we could to not break the law; and third, at the end of the day, we had to be able to look our reflection in the eye. I could live with Olivia’s death. I had nightmares about it, but it was justified. Throwing Rynda out now, when she sat at our kitchen table, was beyond me. Where would she go?
“If Rynda’s crying will make Rogan break up with me, then our relationship wouldn’t last anyway.”
Most of me believed the words that came out of my mouth, but a small, petty part didn’t. That was okay. I was human, and I was entitled to a little bit of insecurity. But I was damned if I let it dictate my actions.
“Thank you, Grandma, but I’ve got it.”
Grandma Frida threw her hands up in disgust. “When your heart breaks, don’t come crying to me.”
“I will anyway.” I hugged her.
“Egh . . .” She made a show of trying to knock me off, then hugged me back.
I opened the door to the office and started down the hallway toward my desk and laptop that waited on it.
“It’s James,” Grandma Frida said mournfully behind me. “He ruined all of my practical grandchildren with his altruism.”
Mom didn’t answer. Dad had been dead seven years, but hearing his name still hurt her. It still hurt me.
I grabbed the laptop, a notepad, and the new client folder just in case, walked back into the kitchen, sat down at the table, and opened my laptop. A few keystrokes told me Bern was home and online.
I fired off a quick email. Please send me the basics on Brian Sherwood ASAP. I set the laptop aside and switched to the writing pad and a pen. People minded notes on paper a lot less than a laptop or being recorded, and I needed Rynda to relax. She was already keyed up.
“Let’s start at the beginning.”
“You don’t like me,” Rynda said. “I felt it back when we first met in the ballroom. You were jealous of me.”
“Yes.” That’s what I get for deciding to take on an empath as a client.
“And when you walked in and saw me, you felt pity and fear.”
“Yes.”
“But you are going to help me anyway. Why? It’s not guilt. Guilt is like plunging into a dark well. I would’ve felt that.”
“You tell me.”
Her eyes narrowed. Magic brushed me, feather-light. “Compassion,” she said quietly. “And duty. Why would you feel a sense of duty toward me?”
“Have you ever held a job?”
She frowned. “No. We don’t need the extra money.”
That must be nice. “Do you have any hobbies? Any passions?”
“I . . . make sculptures.”
“Do you sell them?”
“No. They’re nothing spectacular. I’ve never participated in any exhibits.”
“Then why do you keep making them?”
She blinked. “It makes me happy.”
“Being a private investigator makes me happy. I’m not just doing it for the money. I’m doing it because sometimes I get to help people. Right now, you need help.”
The laptop clicked. A new email, from Bern, popped into my inbox. Brian Sherwood, 32, second son of House Sherwood, Prime, herbamagos. Principal business: Sherwood BioCore. Estimated personal worth: $30 million. Wife: Rynda (Charles), 29. Children: Jessica, 6, and Kyle, 4. Siblings: Edward Sherwood, 38, Angela Sherwood, 23.
Brian Sherwood was a plant mage. Rynda was an empath with a secondary telekenetic talent. That didn’t add up. Primes usually married within their branch of magic. As Rogan once eloquently explained to me in his falling-on-his-sword speech, preserving and increasing magic within the family drove most of their marriage decisions.
I looked back to her. “I don’t know yet if I’m your best option. It may be that you would be better served by a different agency. But before we talk about any of that, walk me through your Thursday. You woke up. Then what happened?”
She focused. “I got up. Brian was already awake. He’d taken a shower. I made breakfast and fixed the lunches for him and the kids.”
