Siren Song

Another small, amused curl of his lips. “You still don’t trust me.”

I just shrugged and returned the smile. Hell, I barely trust myself.

I arrived at the offices of Pratt, Arons, Ziegler, Santos, and Cortez a few minutes after the Will reading was supposed to start. Mostly it was due to traffic, but I also didn’t want to have a scene in front of the office staff when Vicki’s parents saw me. Sadly, the receptionist recognized me and smiled. I say “sadly” because I’ve spent a lot of time and a truckload of money here lately because of my upcoming hearing.

“Morning, Tabitha. Where are they holding Vicki’s Will reading?”

“Good morning, Miss Graves.” Tabitha’s voice was painfully polite. She didn’t like me. It was all over her body language. But I was a paying client, so she’d play nice. “We weren’t expecting you.” I knew I was on the list of attendees, but I’d also been in the room when Dr. Scott had called to tell Barney Arons I wouldn’t be attending.

I didn’t reply, just raised one brow. She nodded and picked up the phone, dialing three numbers before moving her gaze to the desk in front of her. I’ve noticed most receptionists do that when they take a call, as though it creates an invisible wall between them and the person standing at the desk. “Yes, sir. Celia Graves is here?” She made it a question and I knew why. Would Arons tell me to take a hike? He had every right.

I could hear the reply with my shiny new vampire ears. “Tell her to come up, please. We haven’t started yet.”

“Of course. Thank you.” She put down the receiver. “They’re in conference room B-nine.” She turned and pointed to the stairs. “Next floor up, take a right at the top of the stairs, go all the way to the end, turn left, and it’s the third door on the left.”

“Up, right, left, left. Got it. Thanks.”

“Have a nice day.” She tried to make it sound sincere and failed. Whatever. I turned right, as instructed, and started walking. I knew from previous visits that this entire floor was devoted to conference rooms, which I thought was a really nifty idea and very smart planning. Cozy little enclaves held just two or three people—I’d often met Roberto in those (usually when his office was too trashed to dig out a chair)—while other, massive rooms could seat forty or fifty people around a single, unhexable table. All the tables were various shades of marble or slate, which made me wonder aloud to Roberto once about the logistics of hauling the solid stone slabs up. He’d replied with a snort, “Cranes, scaffolds, reinforcing floors, removing windows . . . you don’t want to know the headaches.” And he was probably right.

The reading was apparently in one of the big rooms, because it took a while to get to “third door on the left.” At least I had time to admire the stunning abstract paintings on the walls and feel the soft cushion of high-dollar carpeting underfoot. It was utterly silent in the bright hallway. Every room was soundproofed for confidentiality and I could feel the press of avoidance spells that forced me not to stop at certain rooms—probably where other meetings were taking place.

In the end, it wasn’t hard to spot the proper room: It was the one with armed guards standing on either side of the door. Both men were big and wore crisply starched brown uniforms that looked almost like those of a state trooper. They were armed and each wore a holy item on a silver chain around his neck. I wondered if they were here to keep the parties inside safe or to keep the rest of the office safe from the parties inside.

They didn’t seem surprised at my appearance, which meant someone had warned them to expect the fangs. I was glad. I was already tired of the commotion my new teeth could bring about.

One guard made me show him my driver’s license, which made good sense. Then, after checking my name off a list on his PDA, he opened the door, then carefully closed it behind me. I paused just inside to scan the room and its occupants.

Barney Arons sat in the center of the room, on the far side of the table. The others faced him, along with a large video screen that covered one window. They’d turned their heads as I entered.

“Hey, Celia. Great to see you!” David greeted me warmly, and he and Inez both smiled as I slid into a chair. David and Inez ran the mansion Vicki had lived in when she wasn’t at Birchwoods. David kept the grounds in enviable condition and Inez did the same with the interior . . . including the guesthouse I called home. I wasn’t surprised to see them here. Vicki had always said she’d take care of them if anything happened.

I sat near the door in case Cassandra launched herself at me. She looked like she might. Her beautiful face had moved from neutral and sad when I’d first stepped inside to livid hatred. “What are you doing here?”

Vicki’s father, the legendary actor Jason Cooper, nudged his wife with more force than was probably necessary. He hissed, “Let it go, Cass,” and gave her a look. She returned the look with force and he raised his brows. “I mean it. Drop it now. This isn’t the time or the place.”

Instead of relaxing, she pushed back her chair. I tensed. Sure, I could handle her, but I really didn’t want to hurt her. She was my best friend’s mother. Vicki would be hurt beyond belief if I harmed Cassandra. The worst part was that I hadn’t done anything wrong. I’d loved Vicki like a sister. It made me sad how much Cassandra hated me. But she didn’t turn my way. Instead, she moved to the far end of the room and sat down in the chair opposite me. Then she proceeded to ignore me completely. She pulled a nail file from her purse and began shaping her already perfect nails.

Sheesh, all that trouble, just so I’d know she was ignoring me. I shook my head and leaned back. So she was going to be dramatic instead of physical. Worked for me.

Alex was also there. She gave me a sad smile. Her eyes were red—she’d been crying again. Detective Heather Alexander had been Vicki’s lover. They were as close as a honeymoon couple and had one day hoped to marry. While we aren’t close, Alex and I get along well enough to get by.

It was disturbing to see the person next to Alex face-to-face. Sybil Jones was the woman Cassandra had selected to be Vicki’s double. Hired when Vicki was just a teenager, Sybil was the public face of Victoria Cooper, the darling of the social set in Monte Carlo and the Hamptons. Personally, I never thought Sybil looked all that much like Vicki. She had a different facial shape—oval to Vicki’s heart—and her nose wasn’t the same at all. She’d cut her hair into the latest bob, which would have looked ridiculous on Vicki but dramatically altered Sybil’s overall appearance. I might not have been so uncomfortable with her if I hadn’t known that her very existence had been a source of never-ending hurt to Vicki—not just that her parents wouldn’t acknowledge who she really was but also that they were embarrassed by her.

The press had finally gotten wind of the deception. Vicki had commented more than once that she actually felt sorry for Sybil. Yes, she was given a life of privilege, with jewelry, trips, and fame. But now what? What did the future hold for a woman who had lived most of her life as a lie? She’d betrayed every relationship she might have made—had to, to keep the secret. I’d imagine it was like being a spy, a James Bond. Frankly, I couldn’t do it. It would ruin me emotionally.

She glanced at me blankly. We’d met just once, so I wasn’t surprised she didn’t remember. It had been . . . awkward. Like Alex, Sybil had been crying. For the loss of a woman she never knew, or the end of her life of privilege?

We sat in silence for several minutes. Arons continued to make notes on a yellow legal pad. After checking her watch for the fifth time, Cassandra finally spoke: “Are we going to get on with this? We only planned for this to take an hour. We have a flight at three and still have other errands.”

Arons looked up and blinked at her from behind thick horn-rimmed glasses. “We’re still waiting for five interested parties. According to Ms. Cooper’s written instructions, I’m not to read the Will until everyone is present.” He went back to writing notes, flipping pages in a thick manila folder with the other hand.

“But we have a flight.”

The attorney sighed and put down his fat Waterman pen. He took off his glasses and began to polish the lenses with a handkerchief. “Ms. Meadows, I can’t imagine what gave you the impression this entire event would take only an hour. Your daughter had an extensive estate, owing to both the inheritance from your parents and her own investment skill. Vicki crafted a very creative and carefully thought out Will. She chose not only to have her wishes memorialized in a standard legal document but also to create a video so there was no question of her intent. Being a highly attuned clairvoyant, she set up a precise timetable for this event. We have another”—he glanced at a gold watch that I was betting was a Rolex—“eight and a half minutes before we begin. Everyone should have arrived by then. If you wish to use the time to good effect . . .” Arons carefully put his glasses back on and cocked