morning.” The rich timbre of Agent McCabe’s voice flowed into the space. “We hoped to talk to some of your employees today.”
“I expected as much,” I said as I turn to greet Agent Smathon. I steeled myself for his clammy limp handshake and he didn’t disappoint. Just as I was fighting the urge to wipe my hands on my clothing, Samantha showed up.
“I promised my mother I would be over to help her with the funeral arrangements and I have to leave shortly.” Agent Smathon tensed. I guess he thought I was going to put them off? “I have asked Samantha to assist you while I’m away,” I continued, indicating Samantha.
“Samantha Goldwater,” she said, reaching out her hand first to Agent McCabe and then to Agent Smathon. I couldn’t help watching her face as she took Smathon’s hand. I struggled to swallow my smile as I noticed her discreetly running her right hand up and down the back of her pant leg. She caught me watching her and narrowed her eyes. “ Yeah, I guess I could have warned you ,” I sent. “ My bad .”
Chapter 9
The drive to my parent’s home in Gladwyne takes about twenty-five minutes with good traffic. Today I was in luck and made the trip in near record time, taking a few minutes to enjoy the scenery the last couple of miles. Gladwyne is an affluent suburb of Philadelphia overflowing with tree lined roads and mansions located along the historic Main Line. It has a surprisingly bucolic feel considering it’s so amazingly close to the city.
As I approached the drive, I was surprised to see that the gate was open. With all of the reporters camped outside the office and my home, I had expected to see a gaggle of journalists here as well.
“Hello, Thomas,” I said, stopping to talk briefly to the guard working at the gate. I guess you didn’t have to worry too much about the gate if it was manned with an armed security guard, especially if that guard was also a werewolf.
“Hello Ms. Lassiter,” he said leaning down and putting his hand on the lowered window. “I’m very sorry about Jason. The rest of the staff is pretty broken up about it as well.” Thomas was a good guy. He had been working for our family since I was a little kid.
“Thank you,” I said, patting his hand. “We are all going to feel his absence.” He tipped his head at me with a small smile and stepped back away from the car.
I passed through the gate and headed up the drive, circling around the fountain to park in front of a nearly sixteen thousand square foot turreted monstrosity my father had built when I was five years old. It never ceased to amaze me that my father had requested the home have turrets like those normally associated with fairytales. There were three that could be seen from the drive and two more that were only visible from the back. A medieval castle seemed more in keeping with his personality. But, I had to admit, as children Jason and I had loved to run through the gardens pretending to be princesses and knights. We would hunt down dragons and act out jousts. The memory of those carefree childhood days was bittersweet.
I pulled myself from the driver’s seat before quickly striding up the front steps. I did not knock or ring the bell when I got to the front door; this had been my home for nearly sixteen years. I pushed open the door and breathed in the familiar scents of lemon oil and freesia. The whimsy and imagination of the exterior ended at the entryway. Here there was only a nod to whimsicality in the dramatically curved staircase with its ornately scrolled handrail under which was tucked a baby grand piano shouldering the burden of an impressive candelabrum. The rest of the house was monochromatically overstuffed in a sea of cream and gilded wood.
I strode further into the neutral interior in search of my mother who I assumed will be in the solarium. It was her sanctuary, filled with
“I expected as much,” I said as I turn to greet Agent Smathon. I steeled myself for his clammy limp handshake and he didn’t disappoint. Just as I was fighting the urge to wipe my hands on my clothing, Samantha showed up.
“I promised my mother I would be over to help her with the funeral arrangements and I have to leave shortly.” Agent Smathon tensed. I guess he thought I was going to put them off? “I have asked Samantha to assist you while I’m away,” I continued, indicating Samantha.
“Samantha Goldwater,” she said, reaching out her hand first to Agent McCabe and then to Agent Smathon. I couldn’t help watching her face as she took Smathon’s hand. I struggled to swallow my smile as I noticed her discreetly running her right hand up and down the back of her pant leg. She caught me watching her and narrowed her eyes. “ Yeah, I guess I could have warned you ,” I sent. “ My bad .”
Chapter 9
The drive to my parent’s home in Gladwyne takes about twenty-five minutes with good traffic. Today I was in luck and made the trip in near record time, taking a few minutes to enjoy the scenery the last couple of miles. Gladwyne is an affluent suburb of Philadelphia overflowing with tree lined roads and mansions located along the historic Main Line. It has a surprisingly bucolic feel considering it’s so amazingly close to the city.
As I approached the drive, I was surprised to see that the gate was open. With all of the reporters camped outside the office and my home, I had expected to see a gaggle of journalists here as well.
“Hello, Thomas,” I said, stopping to talk briefly to the guard working at the gate. I guess you didn’t have to worry too much about the gate if it was manned with an armed security guard, especially if that guard was also a werewolf.
“Hello Ms. Lassiter,” he said leaning down and putting his hand on the lowered window. “I’m very sorry about Jason. The rest of the staff is pretty broken up about it as well.” Thomas was a good guy. He had been working for our family since I was a little kid.
“Thank you,” I said, patting his hand. “We are all going to feel his absence.” He tipped his head at me with a small smile and stepped back away from the car.
I passed through the gate and headed up the drive, circling around the fountain to park in front of a nearly sixteen thousand square foot turreted monstrosity my father had built when I was five years old. It never ceased to amaze me that my father had requested the home have turrets like those normally associated with fairytales. There were three that could be seen from the drive and two more that were only visible from the back. A medieval castle seemed more in keeping with his personality. But, I had to admit, as children Jason and I had loved to run through the gardens pretending to be princesses and knights. We would hunt down dragons and act out jousts. The memory of those carefree childhood days was bittersweet.
I pulled myself from the driver’s seat before quickly striding up the front steps. I did not knock or ring the bell when I got to the front door; this had been my home for nearly sixteen years. I pushed open the door and breathed in the familiar scents of lemon oil and freesia. The whimsy and imagination of the exterior ended at the entryway. Here there was only a nod to whimsicality in the dramatically curved staircase with its ornately scrolled handrail under which was tucked a baby grand piano shouldering the burden of an impressive candelabrum. The rest of the house was monochromatically overstuffed in a sea of cream and gilded wood.
I strode further into the neutral interior in search of my mother who I assumed will be in the solarium. It was her sanctuary, filled with
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