Page 30 of Crush
“I suppose.”
“Who is the queen of the Virtues?”
I hear Malcolm sniff on the other end. “You haven’t met her yet?”
“No. Is that not routine?”
“The other recruits would’ve met her by now. I can only think they’re keeping you from her because, once again, you’re a Weatherby and therefore more enemy than ally at the moment.”
“But do you know who she is? You told me to be prepared. Maybe if I’m expecting who to see in the tombs…”
“I’m afraid I don’t. I haven’t been involved in internal Society affairs for a long time. Only when forced, really.”
He’s lying. I can hear it in his voice and the empty space he’s leaving between words. Malcolm really is leaving me to deal with the Societies alone. Is he that angry with me for joining that he refuses to offer even the tiniest advantage?
I sigh, stray strands from my ponytail billowing with my breaths. “Well, thanks, anyway.”
“Ember…”
“Yeah?” I press the phone harder against my ear. Hoping.
“Nothing. Be safe tonight. I’m sorry I’m not there, and I do hope you feel better.”
“I will.”
We click off. I stare down at my lunch, appetite lost. Carting it with me anyway, I pick up my bag along the way and head to my room, where I plan to spend the rest of my hours on my laptop, hunting and finding. I don’t care if my computer alerts Malcolm to what I’m up to. It doesn’t seem to raise any of his red flags.
Not unless I contact my parents, which seems to be all that angers him.
Near drownings? Fine. Jumping off cliffs? Good. Coffee burns? Excellent. Emailing your mother? Death sentence.
I glance at the false wall as I settle into my bed with my laptop and food, noting the fresh sealant along the edges. It’s both enraging and soothing at the same time. I despise Malcolm for exercising such control, but I enjoy the image of Thorne butting up against a dead end, over and over again, as he tries to spy on me.
With his intrusive presence now a non-starter, I focus on Aiko’s and my project, waiting until the clock ticks midnight and I become his again.
* * *
I decide to wear an old loose T-shirt and leggings for whatever dare Aurora’s thought up next. With my hair tied back and off my face, I take one last survey of my closed laptop and rough, coded notes that only I can read, satisfied with my work this afternoon.
I’d accessed most police documents and news articles pertaining to Savannah’s disappearance in August of last year. Nothing in them was surprising or anything I didn’t already know from my research a few months ago. Those, I leave to the Societies. They know more than they’re letting on, and that reason is what propels me through my bedroom door and down the stairs with my hand clenched around my phone.
Aurora or any one of her minions could text any minute. I haven’t been given the precise location, but almost all my trials and the challenge last week were on Winthorpe’s grounds, so I decide to head there first.
How, though…
I scan the foyer, naturally devoid of any key hooks for someone to hang their car fob before they wander farther inside. Dash and Malcolm are the only ones who drive even though I have my license. They seem disinclined to give me that kind of freedom. Probably because I’d drive their ride right back to Boston.
I bite my lip at where those keys could be.
Dash’s are probably with him in his quarters since he lives here full-time, so that’s a no-go. I picture him reading a first edition book in bed, wearing full pajamas with a hot toddy on his nightstand, unimpressed and with a long-suffering frown as my arm sneaks through the crack in his doorway and pats the wall, searching for hanging keys.
That leaves Malcolm, who’s away for the week and stores his keys … somewhere. His office?
I’ll start there first.
My socked feet are soundless as I round the corner behind the curving staircase and take the hallway on the left. Small sconces provide minimal light, showcasing Malcolm’s knickknacks and travel souvenirs more than the floors. The peeling, maroon wallpaper doesn’t help either, and I make my way carefully, wary of knocking over the full-sized knight guarding his office doorway.
Malcolm’s a cautious man. I half expect his office to be locked, but the brass doorknob turns easily in my hand.