“Have some faith in your father, Esmeralda,” Aunt Dinah said, exasperated. “He wouldn’t have sent you to stay with anyone who couldn’t handle taking care of you.”
I shook my head. “Hunter is not my father.”
Aunt Dinah pursed her lips. “Be that as it may, he’s married to your mother. He deserves your respect.”
“The last time I checked, respect was earned.”
The old woman sighed as she pulled into the driveway of her ridiculous mansion. “I have my work cut out for me, it would seem.”
I looked up at the house, my stomach knotting in dread.
This monstrosity of brick and mortar had two stories with five bedrooms, three bathrooms, a sitting room, a library, a kitchen separate from the dining room, a foyer large enough to comfortably fit an SUV, and the biggest wooden staircase I’d ever seen. Not to mention the attic and the wine cellar could have passed for third and fourth stories. The exterior sported ridiculous columns and a second story porch with a wrought iron balustrade. The clapboard cladding had been painted blue years ago but was now so pale it was almost gray.
The grounds were lush and green, having been trimmed and watered by Aunt Dinah that very morning. It was more space than anyone would ever need and it annoyed the hell out of me. I’d seen such grandeur in old triple decker estates in the posh neighborhoods of Boston, but rarely had I seen them maintained by one stubborn old lady.
“Why can’t you live in an apartment in some old folks’ center like a normal retired person?”
“Not that it’s any of your business, but this is my family’s estate. I’d rather it stay in the family.” She climbed out of the Cadillac and shut the door none too gently.
I followed her up the walkway. “You didn’t think to hire a maid?”
“Maids are expensive. Aside from being mentally taxing, you’re free.” Aunt Dinah opened the front door and scowled over her shoulder at me. “Well, come on! It’s not going to clean itself.”
I gritted my teeth. FML.
Chapter 2
Charles
I stepped off my skateboard and carried it into the precinct. Policemen were rushing about in frenzied excitement as the news of a case spread.
“Where’s my uncle?” I asked a passing officer. “Where’s Detective Campbell?”
“The last time I saw him, he was going to see your sister,” she said.
I nodded in thanks before I began trekking through the maze of cubicles and desks. The vision had been so clear. The street sign still burned behind my eyelids every time I blinked. Madison Street. This was serious, not some accident or time taking its toll on the elderly. Somebody had been brutally disposed of.
I closed the metal door of the crude elevator located on the south side of the building and pulled the lever. I slid underground in a matter of seconds and yanked the metal slate aside. Dashing down the stairs at a dangerous pace almost made me face-plant onto the tile but I managed to keep my balance.
The room was constructed like a giant studio apartment. The only two doors in the entire floor belonged to my sister’s walk-in closet and the bathroom we shared. My “room” was divided from the kitchen by the placement of the counters and cabinets, but also by the line where tile met carpet. My workspace was separated from my room by the thick plastic sheets laid out over the floor, the giant work desk, and the piles of tools I used to create things. My sister’s room was flush against the bathroom with her “school” workspace squished in the south western corner. The living room consisted of a TV, two armchairs and a couch, all of which sat around the glass coffee table hanging out at the center of the apartment.
This was home. Or more like the closest we would ever get to home. We used to live with Uncle Victor but, the older we got, the more space everyone needed and this was the safest place for us. God only knew how my uncle had managed to convince the captain to let him renovate the precinct’s basement…
I flew right into the foot of Jasmine’s bed. She lay with her limbs bent awkwardly. The knotted sheets proved she’d thrashed a lot before the end. Her black hair was still wet with sweat. Her pale skin was already healing from the bruises the victim had suffered before they died.
With heart thumping against my Adam’s apple, I turned to Anthony. “How long has she been under?”
He checked his wristwatch. “Two minutes.”
The man was tall but fit, with curly light brown hair and brown eyes. When he found time to work out, I had no idea. He always seemed to be here, acting as Jasmine’s doctor or tutor.
Uncle Victor watched my sister intently. “Come on, Jazz.”
His blond hair was close cropped, but he liked to keep a five o’clock shadow at all times, claiming he’d still look twenty-one if he didn’t. With his blue eyes and wind chapped skin, it was hard to believe he was related to us.
I took my sister’s hand and gave it a squeeze. She was ice cold.
Her eyes finally flew open and air hissed in through her teeth. The rest of us let out sighs of relief. It didn’t matter how many times we’d seen her die. It was still terrifying.
I pulled her into a hug. “Welcome back.”
Jasmine shivered in my arms.
“How’re you feeling?” Uncle Victor asked.
When I leaned back to look at her, tears were welling up in those eggplant-purple eyes of hers. “She makes it seem so nice there. Every time I go, she makes me not want to come back and then she drags me back…God, I hate her.”
“You shouldn’t come with us,” I
