The door opens, and Dean and Xavier come in chatting. They stop when Dean notices me brushing tears away from my cheeks.
"What's wrong?" he asks. "What happened?"
I shake my head and force a smile. "Nothing. I'm fine."
"Hey, son," Dad smiles, standing up and giving Dean first an awkward handshake, but then they pull each other into a hug.
"Hey, Uncle Ian," he says. "Good to see you."
"Good to see you, too."
"Dad, this is Xavier," I introduce. "Xavier, this is my father."
"Ian Griffin," Dad says, extending a hand toward Xavier.
Xavier hesitates and looks at Dad’s hand. Dad's eyes slide over to me, and I shake my head subtly. Dad lets his hand drop and continues smiling at Xavier.
"We have answers for you," Xavier says to me.
I almost want to laugh. He can't take himself off the track he was already on. He wasn't expecting my father to be here, so he can't change the direction of his thoughts to interact with him before getting out what they came to tell me.
“Go for it,” I say.
“It's about Lilith Duprey,” Xavier says. “We did what you asked and looked into her. And we found out something she kept buried underground, even when you tried to dig it up. The shape is still correct, but the weight is all wrong. Something is missing from it.”
“She wasn’t telling you the whole truth. Her husband was murdered ten years ago,” translates Dean.
“He was murdered?” I ask. “What happened?”
“Don't know,” Dean says. “It's still unsolved. But ten years ago is right about when Lilith started renting out her house in Salt Valley.”
“That's why she wanted me to know she was a widow,” I say. “She emphasized that over and over. She wanted me to know about his murder. That's why she moved. He was probably killed in the old house, and she didn't want to live there anymore.”
“That makes sense,” Dean says. “It also explains why it changed renters several times. Not many people like the idea of living in a house where someone died.”
“I wouldn't mind it,” Xavier chimes in.
We look at him, and his eyes widen slightly as if he didn't realize he said that out loud.
“You wouldn't?” I raise an eyebrow.
He shrugs. “At least that way, I know the people who lived there before me don't miss it. And I have to get used to feeling that way, don't I?”
I swallow hard and nod.
“What else?” I finally ask, trying to shake the emotion out of my head.
“Well, her husband was murdered, and she moved out of the house. But a decade before his murder, he was embroiled in a scandal,” Dean says.
“Embroiled, no less,” I note.
“I think that's the proper term when it involves politicians,” Xavier says.
“Her husband was a politician?” I ask.
“He was,” Xavier nods. “One of those white knight types. Loved by all. Always smiling. Too big a smile.”
“He's pretty much a folk hero," Dean says. “His name is still invoked to this day by the causes he championed.”
“And we all know how accurate those depictions are," I comment. “But this one has a past. So, what happened? What was the scandal?"
"We're not sure," Dean says.
"What?" I ask.
"We weren't able to find all the details yet," he tells me. "But we know it involves a woman named Lindsey Granger."
"Who is that? Another politician?" I ask.
"Another mystery," Xavier says. "We can only see her shadow."
I rub my temples with my fingertips. "This is insane. We've got another person who is missing, Lilith going from glamorous politician's wife to Green Acres. And somehow, in all this, she ends up wrapped up with a cult."
"Not a cult," Dad corrects me quickly.
"What?" I ask.
"The Order of Prometheus isn't a cult. It's a secret society, a fraternal order. It's not the same thing," he says.
"How do you know about the Order of Prometheus?" I ask. "Did the CIA investigate it?"
I haven't even considered the possibility, but now that the thought has gone through my mind, I'm excited. If Dad has already investigated it, he might be able to give me more insight into it and help trap them.
"No," he says. "I haven't investigated it. I'm in it."
Chapter Twenty
Ten years after death…
She couldn't cry. The dead don't mourn. At least, not from their graves.
After ten years, she no longer had eyes to cry. The sockets in her skull would be forever empty, with only raindrops to pretend at tears.
But even if she could cry, even if she could mourn, would she?
Were there ever tears cried for her? Did he ever, even once, stop and wonder what was happening to her?
It wasn't easy now. His skull still had eyes, but they couldn't see anything. Hers closed before her face dropped into the puddle, in the seconds after her heart stopped and her brain flashed in an instant of vibrant, explosive life.
His stayed open. They locked on the black and white floor and the rivulets of blood that flowed along the narrow seams between the tiles. Each tiny hexagon was nestled down into that floor individually. The grout crisp and white. It was just slightly uneven, making the blood pool and dip until it formed brilliant scarlet shapes that led away from him toward the slice of sunlight coming through the curtains.
Maybe he saw that sunlight in those last flashes of brain activity. Or maybe he saw her.
Her before the dirt, before the rain, before the sheet, before the puddle. Her before the cloud-covered starlight and the angry words. Her when he still knew what she looked like.
No one would come to tell her that he was gone. No one would whisper the words to her grave and hope the water seeping through her could carry them up to where she might hear them. No one knew she was there. And it seemed no one ever would.
But maybe there was someone who knew. Someone who would never say it but could feel it.
Chapter Twenty-One
“What do you mean you're in it?” My mouth is gaping open.
I have no idea how
