Eight

A CHILLY TRICKLE OF RAIN DAMPENED THE morning. It was the sort, Fox knew, that tended to hang around all day like a sick headache. Nothing to do but tolerate it.

He dug out a hooded sweatshirt from a basket of laundry he’d managed to wash, but hadn’t yet put away. At least he was ninety percent sure he’d washed it. Maybe seventy-five. So he sniffed it, then bumped that up to a hundred percent.

He found jeans, underwear, socks-though the socks took longer as he actually wanted them to match. As he dressed, glanced around his bedroom, he vowed he’d find the time and the willpower to put the stupid laundry away, even though it would eventually be in need of washing and putting away again. He’d make the bed sometime in this decade, and shovel out the rest of the junk.

If he could get it to that point, maybe he could find a cleaning lady who’d stick it out. Maybe a cleaning guy, he considered over his first Coke of the day. A guy would get it better, probably.

He’d look into it.

He laced on his old workboots, and because housekeeping was on his mind, tossed discarded shoes in the closet and, inspired, shoved the laundry basket in after them.

He grabbed his keys, another Coke and a Devil Dog that would serve as his while-driving breakfast. Halfway down the outside steps, he spotted Layla standing at the base.

“Hey.”

“I was just coming up. We saw your truck was still here, so I had Quinn drop me off. I thought I’d ride with you.”

“Great.” He held up the snack cake. “Devil Dog?”

“Actually, I’ve had enough of devil dogs on four legs.”

“Oh yeah.” He ripped the wrapper as he joined her. “Strangely, that’s never put me off the joy of the Devil Dog.”

“That is not your breakfast,” she said as he bit in. He only smiled, kept walking.

“My stomach stopped maturing at twelve.” He pulled open the passenger door of his truck. “How’d you sleep?”

She shot a look at him over her shoulder as she climbed in. “Well enough.” She waited until he’d rounded the hood and slid behind the wheel. “Even after Cybil told me about her and Gage’s run-in-literally-with a devil dog. It happened when they were driving to Cal’s from your place.”

“Yeah, Gage filled me in while I was skinning him at pinball.” He set his Coke in the drink holder, took another bite of the cake. After a quick check, he pulled away from the curb.

“I wanted to ride with you because I had some ideas on how to approach this thing today.”

“And I thought it was because you can’t keep away from me.”

“I’m trying not to react with my hormones.”

“Damn shame.”

“That may be, but… It took so much out of Quinn yesterday. I’m hoping we could try, you and me, and take her out of the mix. The whole point is to find the journals, if they’re there. If they are, they’re in the now. If not, then we’d have to fall back to Quinn. But-”

“You’d like to spare her the migraine. We can try it. I’m also assuming you didn’t mention this idea to her.”

“I figured, if you agreed, we could bring it up as something we came up with on the drive over.” She smiled over at him. “There, I’m working on my strategy. Did you dream last night?”

“Only about you. We were in my office, and you were wearing this really, really little red dress and those high heels with the ankle straps? Those kill me. You sat on my desk, facing me. I was in the chair. And you said, after you’d licked your lips: ‘I’m ready to take dictation, Mr. O’Dell.’”

She listened, head cocked. “You just made that up.”

He shot her a quick and charming grin. “Maybe, but I guarantee I’ll have that dream tonight. Maybe we should go out. There’s this bar over the river? A nice bar. They have live music on Saturday nights. They get some pretty decent musicians in.”

“It sounds so normal. I keep trying to keep a grip on normal with one hand while I’m digging into the impossible with the other. It’s…”

“Surreal. I forget about it-between the Sevens, I can forget about it for weeks, even months sometimes. Then something reminds me. That’s surreal, too. Going along, doing the work, having fun, whatever and zap, it’s right back in my head. The closer it gets, the more it’s in my head.” His fingers danced against the steering wheel to the beat of Snow Patrol. “So a nice bar with good music is a way to remember it’s a lot, but it’s not everything.”

“That’s a smart way to look at it. I’m not sure I can get to that point, but I’d like to listen to some music across the river. What time?”

“Ah… nine? Is nine good for you?”

“All right.” She drew in a breath when he turned in the lane to the farmhouse. She was making a date with a man she was about to link with psychically. Surreal didn’t quite cover it.

It also felt rude, she discovered, to go inside the house without invitation. It was Fox’s childhood home, true enough, but he no longer lived there. She thought about going into her parents’ condo when they weren’t there, deliberately choosing a time they weren’t there, and simply couldn’t.

“This feels wrong,” she said as they stood in the living room. “It feels wrong and intrusive. I understand why we want to do this while they’re not home, but it feels…” At a loss, she settled for the standby. “Rude.”

“My parents don’t mind people coming in. Otherwise, they’d lock the doors.”

“Still-”

“We have to prioritize, Layla.” Quinn spread her hands. “The reason we’re here is more important than standard guidelines of courtesy. I got so much outside the house yesterday. I’m bound to get more inside.”

“About that. I had this idea, talked it over with Layla on the drive. If you don’t mind us cutting in line, Quinn, I’d like to try something with Layla first. We may be able to visualize where the journals are, if they’re here. Or at least get a sense of them.”

“That’s good thinking. And not just because I’d rather you didn’t go through it again,” Cal added when Quinn narrowed her eyes at him. “It could work, and better yet, with Fox and Layla linked, it downscales the side effects.”

“And if it doesn’t work,” Fox added, “back to you.”

“All right, that makes sense. Believe me, it’s not as if I look forward to having my head explode.”

“Okay, then we’re up. This is the oldest part of the house. Actually, this room and the ones directly above were the house as far as anyone can tell. So, logically, if there was a cabin or a house here before this one was built, it could be over the same spot. Maybe, especially given Quinn’s trip yesterday, they used some of the same materials.”

“Like the fireplace.” Quinn crossed to it, stepped over Lump, who’d already stretched out in front of the low fire, to run her hand over the stones. “I’m big on the idea of hiding stuff behind bricks and stones.”

“And if we hack at that mortar, start pulling out stones without being a hundred percent, my father will kill me. Ready?” Fox asked Layla.

“As I’ll ever be.”

“Look at me.” He took her hands. “Just look at me. Don’t think. Imagine. A small book, the writing inside. The ink’s faded. Imagine her handwriting. You’ve seen it in her other journals.”

His eyes were so rich. That old gold color so fascinating. His hands weren’t lawyer-smooth. Not like the hands of a man who carried a briefcase, who worked at a desk. There was labor on them, strength and capability in them. He smelled of the rain, just a little of rain.

He would taste like cake.

He wanted her. Imagined touching her, gliding his hands over bare skin, sliding them over her breasts, her belly. Laying his lips there, his tongue, tasting the heat, the flesh…

In bed, when there’s only us.

She gasped, jerked back. His voice had been clear inside her head.

“What did you see?” Cal demanded. “Did you see it?”

With his eyes still locked on Layla’s, Fox shook his head. “We had to get something out of the way first. One more time?” he said to Layla. “Use your compartments.”