Page 41 of Hate to Love You
This is why I love Ana. She’s no nonsense.
“I need a new assistant,” I say, smiling at her. “And since my “fully capable” HR department fucked up with the last one, I’m not thrilled about trusting the process this time.”
“So, you really do want me to post a job for you,” she says, glaring at me.
“No, HR will do the posting, I just thought you could do some preliminary research on whomever applies. You know, the thorough kind.”
“This could’ve been a text message, Roman!” she says, throwing her hands in the air. “Fine, I’ll do it! Can I go now?”
“Sure,” I nod. “I’ll drive you back home.”
“How kind of you,” Ana says, folding her arms and sinking into the chair across from me.
“Just let me wrap up a few things first,” I say, picking up the envelope.
But suddenly Ana’s hand grabs mine.
“What are you doing?” she asks, her eyes wide with concern. “Isn’t that the envelope Kristinah dropped off?”
“Umm, yes?” I say, raising a brow at her. “I just never got around to it.”
Once again, I go to slice the thin cardboard but, once again, Ana stops me. And this time, she grabs it by the corner, and slowly walks it over to Caesar’s bed, where he sits staring at us both.
Among the many things that my dog is trained to do, one of them is identifying explosives. And he’s never been wrong. It’s a useful skill, considering the Irish have an affinity for explosives, and we’ve been at war with them for over a decade.
After a few good long sniffs of the package, he shows no reaction whatsoever, indicating it’s safe to open.
Carefully I slice the envelope open, but instead of a letter, the envelope appears to be empty.
“What the fuck?” I snort. “Who the hell pays to send a letter urgently, but then forgets to add the actual message?”
However, just as I throw it into the trash can, a pebble falls out, bouncing onto the floor. Except, as I pick it up, I realize that it’s not a pebble, but rather what appears to be a seed.
Ana walks over to the desk and takes it from me, staring at it before pulling the envelope out of the trash. She rips the edge open, revealing the entire inside and the fact that there are several more seeds inside.
“Why the fuck would someone send me seeds?” I ask incredulously. “Unless they belong to Polina and are just more of those stupid Shakespeare flowers or whatever she was screaming about earlier.”
“I don’t think so, Ro,” Ana says. “These actually look like citrus pips.”
Suddenly, the word pip instantly causes a light bulb in the far distant crevices of my mind to illuminate…and it also causes my blood to go cold.
“I don’t get it though,” she says, picking up the envelope and looking inside. “There’s no note? No message?”
“The pips are the message,” I whisper, taking them from her. “They are a warning…of death.”
“What?”
“Did you ever read The Five Orange Pips? by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle?”
“You mean that British guy who wrote Sherlock Holmes?” Ana says cautiously.
“He was British, but Doyle’s father was an immigrant,” I smirk. “An Irish Catholic immigrant.”
As I stare down at one of the seeds in my hand, I notice that there is writing on it. Very faintly, I can see that carved into this small little seed, is the letter “V.”
“Look at this,” I say, handing it to Ana before picking up another. “And this one, it has a letter “A” on it.”
“So, it’s from the Irish, and there is a message,” Ana says cautiously. “But, what is it, Roman? Do they want to meet?”