breath. “And I want in. I want to be a part of your life again, Dad.”
His brows drew together tighter. “Crystal—”
“I want to know more.” She cut him off so she could finish making her case. “Is there someone I can meet with? Someone I can persuade to let me join? I want this, Dad. I want to be a part of your life again. And if what you’re saying is true—that you’re, like, literally helping to save the world by being a part of this secret society, then I want to help, too.”
As she said it, she realized she wasn’t lying. She wanted to be part of her father’s life, and she wanted to know everything about this group that had stolen him away from his family.
Maybe he was right and her mother was wrong.
It wouldn’t be the first time.
Three years ago, when cash began disappearing from the till—five to twenty dollars a few times a week, Julia had accused Crys directly because she’d once been detained at the Eaton Centre on suspicion of shoplifting (which had actually been her friend Sara, not her). Her father had defended her. He and Julia had had a huge argument, their raised voices easily heard through the thin walls of the apartment.
It turned out that a part-time clerk had taken the money. She was fired, and since then, the running of the Speckled Muse had been kept in the family.
Her mother had never apologized, and Crys had never forgotten. Or forgiven.
Daniel Hatcher pulled his hand away from Crys’s, put the camera back on the surface of the table, and leaned back in his chair. “You mean this.”
“With all my heart.” Then she closed her mouth. She’d had her say, and now it was up to him.
Had she moved too fast? Would he think she was up to something?
“There is someone I can talk to,” he finally said. “His name is Markus.”
She went very still when she heard the name.
Markus King stole everything from us—including your damn husband—and now I’ve stolen something from him.
It was him. The man her mother thought might be able to help Becca. The man Jackie had somehow stolen the book from.
The man who had the answers Crys desperately needed.
“And I promise I will talk to him,” her father continued. “The society welcomes family members and . . . you’re my family, Crys. You’re my blood. I’ll do what I can to arrange a meeting, but I’m not promising anything beyond that. I can’t make demands; I can only make requests. The ultimate decision is out of my hands.”
She nodded, her heart pounding. “I understand.”
“I’ll be in touch as soon as I can.” He glanced at his wristwatch. “But I have to go now.”
“Okay.”
She stood up as he did, and, after a brief hesitation, he leaned over and kissed her cheek. “I’ve missed you, Crissy,” he said.
She watched him walk away until he was out of sight. “Me too.”
Chapter 8
FARRELL
T he sound of persistent knocking woke him.
Morning light streamed through the sliver of window his blinds didn’t cover. He groaned and tried to sit up, shielding his eyes.
What time was it?
A glance at the clock on his bedside table informed him it was eight.
Eight?
Considering he hadn’t gotten in until almost five A . M ., he was ready to kill whoever had stolen his sleep.
The door opened, and his father strode inside, went to the window, and pulled the blinds completely up.
“What are you doing?” Farrell demanded.
“Enough of this laziness,” Edward Grayson snapped. “It’s gone on for far too long. Get up.”
“I’ll get up when I’m finished sleeping. Not there yet.”
“You need to start thinking about your future, Farrell.”
He fell back down against his pillow and stared up at the ceiling. “Today?”
“It’s been a difficult year. It’s been hard for all of us. But it’s time to be a man, time to start taking responsibility.”
He couldn’t deal with this right now. “How about I take responsibility in a few hours?”
His father moved toward the bed and, in
His brows drew together tighter. “Crystal—”
“I want to know more.” She cut him off so she could finish making her case. “Is there someone I can meet with? Someone I can persuade to let me join? I want this, Dad. I want to be a part of your life again. And if what you’re saying is true—that you’re, like, literally helping to save the world by being a part of this secret society, then I want to help, too.”
As she said it, she realized she wasn’t lying. She wanted to be part of her father’s life, and she wanted to know everything about this group that had stolen him away from his family.
Maybe he was right and her mother was wrong.
It wouldn’t be the first time.
Three years ago, when cash began disappearing from the till—five to twenty dollars a few times a week, Julia had accused Crys directly because she’d once been detained at the Eaton Centre on suspicion of shoplifting (which had actually been her friend Sara, not her). Her father had defended her. He and Julia had had a huge argument, their raised voices easily heard through the thin walls of the apartment.
It turned out that a part-time clerk had taken the money. She was fired, and since then, the running of the Speckled Muse had been kept in the family.
Her mother had never apologized, and Crys had never forgotten. Or forgiven.
Daniel Hatcher pulled his hand away from Crys’s, put the camera back on the surface of the table, and leaned back in his chair. “You mean this.”
“With all my heart.” Then she closed her mouth. She’d had her say, and now it was up to him.
Had she moved too fast? Would he think she was up to something?
“There is someone I can talk to,” he finally said. “His name is Markus.”
She went very still when she heard the name.
Markus King stole everything from us—including your damn husband—and now I’ve stolen something from him.
It was him. The man her mother thought might be able to help Becca. The man Jackie had somehow stolen the book from.
The man who had the answers Crys desperately needed.
“And I promise I will talk to him,” her father continued. “The society welcomes family members and . . . you’re my family, Crys. You’re my blood. I’ll do what I can to arrange a meeting, but I’m not promising anything beyond that. I can’t make demands; I can only make requests. The ultimate decision is out of my hands.”
She nodded, her heart pounding. “I understand.”
“I’ll be in touch as soon as I can.” He glanced at his wristwatch. “But I have to go now.”
“Okay.”
She stood up as he did, and, after a brief hesitation, he leaned over and kissed her cheek. “I’ve missed you, Crissy,” he said.
She watched him walk away until he was out of sight. “Me too.”
Chapter 8
FARRELL
T he sound of persistent knocking woke him.
Morning light streamed through the sliver of window his blinds didn’t cover. He groaned and tried to sit up, shielding his eyes.
What time was it?
A glance at the clock on his bedside table informed him it was eight.
Eight?
Considering he hadn’t gotten in until almost five A . M ., he was ready to kill whoever had stolen his sleep.
The door opened, and his father strode inside, went to the window, and pulled the blinds completely up.
“What are you doing?” Farrell demanded.
“Enough of this laziness,” Edward Grayson snapped. “It’s gone on for far too long. Get up.”
“I’ll get up when I’m finished sleeping. Not there yet.”
“You need to start thinking about your future, Farrell.”
He fell back down against his pillow and stared up at the ceiling. “Today?”
“It’s been a difficult year. It’s been hard for all of us. But it’s time to be a man, time to start taking responsibility.”
He couldn’t deal with this right now. “How about I take responsibility in a few hours?”
His father moved toward the bed and, in
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