mostly antique and quilt shops. Froth and Java was on the corner, and I left the Jeep parked in the lot there rather than trying to find street parking.
Latte in hand, right on the threshold of the newspaper office, I suddenly remembered what else was on Main Street: the offices of Congressman Peter Abbott. The skin on the back of my neck tingled, like a cold wind had blown across my nape, and I knew I'd been spotted. Frozen with my hand on the door, I raised my deflector shields, but of course they did nothing against a perfectly good pair of eyes and the ability to put two and two together.
"Maggie Quinn, isn't it?" Victoria Abbott's voice came as no surprise, but I flinched anyway.
Caught. How stupid could I be?
I turned, brushed my hair from my face. The buildings made a wind tunnel and turned the mild day brisk in their shade. "Hello, Mrs. Abbott."
She was dressed casually today, like a Ralph Lauren ad instead of a Vogue spread. If not for the dread curdling the cream in my coffee, I would have really coveted the leather bag she had slung over her shoulder. Her eyes looked me up and down, canted over to the words Avalon Sentinel on the office window, and came back to my face.
"Perhaps we should talk."
"Um. Sure." Perhaps I wouldn't just die on the spot. Vic- toria Abbott was intimidating on a mundane level--even without the memories of last night's ritual flooding back to me when I saw her. How could I have forgotten?
I expected her to lead me back to the congressman's of- fice, but maybe she didn't want my body discovered there. Instead, she headed toward Froth and Java; gesturing to an outside table, she asked, "Would you like a refill?"
"No." I remembered my manners. "No, thank you."
She sat, crossed her legs, and waited.
Cops use that technique: Keep quiet and let the suspect hang himself. There's a need to fill silence, and when you're guilty, it becomes a compulsion. I had to bite the inside of my lip to keep from blurting out . . . everything.
She was strong, but I was stubborn. I looked at the puffy clouds blowing across the sky, the Saturday antique shop- pers, the clock on the courthouse--anything but Victoria.
Finally, she said, "I know what you're up to."
I powered up my psychic force field. "All I'm up to is re- search. I need the Sentinel's archives for a school paper."
All technically truthful.
She lifted a perfectly sculpted brow. "Then you're not the Phantom?"
I started to speak, but no sound came out. No lie, no truth. Nothing. Victoria leaned forward and said under the cover of traffic noise, "There's no point in lying. I'm good at seeing through things. Just like you, I think."
She held my gaze, watching while I considered and re- jected excuses and lies, one after another. Finally, I decided to be direct. "Are you going to kick me out?"
She rolled her eyes, and the atmosphere became almost normal. "You really think I care about a pissant school paper?"
Well . . . I cared.
"I see great things for you, Maggie Quinn." She tapped the table with manicured fingernails. "But let's establish some ground rules. The Phantom can mock the Greek sys- tem as she pleases. The hypocrisy, pretension . . . I don't care."
That not only sounded as though she wasn't going to kick me out; maybe she wouldn't turn me into a frog, either.
"But not one word," Queen Victoria continued, "about specific Sigma members, business, or rituals. Everything that happens in that house is off the record."
Relief turned to suspicion. "But . . . why?"
"You are a Sigma, and Sigmas excel in their careers. This is the start of yours, so why should I hold you back?"
"I . . ." Words failed me.
She set her folded arms on the table. "I don't believe in coincidence. However you came to join us, I think you're meant to be a Sigma."
"Look, it's not that I don't appreciate the second chance. But I'm not--"
"Maggie, don't be coy." She gave me a cut-the-crap stare. "Jenna told me she talked to
Latte in hand, right on the threshold of the newspaper office, I suddenly remembered what else was on Main Street: the offices of Congressman Peter Abbott. The skin on the back of my neck tingled, like a cold wind had blown across my nape, and I knew I'd been spotted. Frozen with my hand on the door, I raised my deflector shields, but of course they did nothing against a perfectly good pair of eyes and the ability to put two and two together.
"Maggie Quinn, isn't it?" Victoria Abbott's voice came as no surprise, but I flinched anyway.
Caught. How stupid could I be?
I turned, brushed my hair from my face. The buildings made a wind tunnel and turned the mild day brisk in their shade. "Hello, Mrs. Abbott."
She was dressed casually today, like a Ralph Lauren ad instead of a Vogue spread. If not for the dread curdling the cream in my coffee, I would have really coveted the leather bag she had slung over her shoulder. Her eyes looked me up and down, canted over to the words Avalon Sentinel on the office window, and came back to my face.
"Perhaps we should talk."
"Um. Sure." Perhaps I wouldn't just die on the spot. Vic- toria Abbott was intimidating on a mundane level--even without the memories of last night's ritual flooding back to me when I saw her. How could I have forgotten?
I expected her to lead me back to the congressman's of- fice, but maybe she didn't want my body discovered there. Instead, she headed toward Froth and Java; gesturing to an outside table, she asked, "Would you like a refill?"
"No." I remembered my manners. "No, thank you."
She sat, crossed her legs, and waited.
Cops use that technique: Keep quiet and let the suspect hang himself. There's a need to fill silence, and when you're guilty, it becomes a compulsion. I had to bite the inside of my lip to keep from blurting out . . . everything.
She was strong, but I was stubborn. I looked at the puffy clouds blowing across the sky, the Saturday antique shop- pers, the clock on the courthouse--anything but Victoria.
Finally, she said, "I know what you're up to."
I powered up my psychic force field. "All I'm up to is re- search. I need the Sentinel's archives for a school paper."
All technically truthful.
She lifted a perfectly sculpted brow. "Then you're not the Phantom?"
I started to speak, but no sound came out. No lie, no truth. Nothing. Victoria leaned forward and said under the cover of traffic noise, "There's no point in lying. I'm good at seeing through things. Just like you, I think."
She held my gaze, watching while I considered and re- jected excuses and lies, one after another. Finally, I decided to be direct. "Are you going to kick me out?"
She rolled her eyes, and the atmosphere became almost normal. "You really think I care about a pissant school paper?"
Well . . . I cared.
"I see great things for you, Maggie Quinn." She tapped the table with manicured fingernails. "But let's establish some ground rules. The Phantom can mock the Greek sys- tem as she pleases. The hypocrisy, pretension . . . I don't care."
That not only sounded as though she wasn't going to kick me out; maybe she wouldn't turn me into a frog, either.
"But not one word," Queen Victoria continued, "about specific Sigma members, business, or rituals. Everything that happens in that house is off the record."
Relief turned to suspicion. "But . . . why?"
"You are a Sigma, and Sigmas excel in their careers. This is the start of yours, so why should I hold you back?"
"I . . ." Words failed me.
She set her folded arms on the table. "I don't believe in coincidence. However you came to join us, I think you're meant to be a Sigma."
"Look, it's not that I don't appreciate the second chance. But I'm not--"
"Maggie, don't be coy." She gave me a cut-the-crap stare. "Jenna told me she talked to
Similar Books
