43
After escorting Kayla home,Liv and Zeke had stayed long enough for him to inspect the lobbyist’s home security and the safe where she’d keep Lupos until the authentication meeting. When he still seemed reluctant to leave, Phin, Rohan, and Cruz offered to stay overnight.
Amused rather than offended, Kayla kicked off her shoes, grabbed four beers from the refrigerator, and challenged the brothers to a game of pool.
The ride with Zeke back to the Friary had been a silent one. Volatile in a way she didn’t understand, but had witnessed once before. On a rooftop.
That night in Charlotte, he’d been exorcising demons. So had she.
For her, the fourth anniversary of her husband’s death.
For him, his brother’s desertion at his birthday dinner—and a deeper scar she was only now figuring out.
Together, they had expelled their demons in a hot splash of water and cool sheets.
But tonight, the farther they drove away from the sword, the more distant Zeke grew.
Did his failed attempt to smuggle the sword out of the St. Martins’ museum replay in his mind? Was he upset with her for offering a compromise? Or did something else drag him deeper into silence?
Once they reached the Great Hall, he made a direct line to the sideboard full of liquor and she climbed the stairs. The moment she reached the second floor, she wrenched off her beaded six-inch torture chambers and groaned when her feet leveled out on the plush carpet.
She inched open Brodie’s door and, using the glow of moonlight through his window, padded across his room. He lay on his side, turned away from her. When she bent forward to kiss him goodnight, something propped against the spare pillow caught her eye.
Every muscle in her torso clenched tighter and tighter until all the air was forced from her lungs. Tears gathered, blurring her vision. She couldn’t blink—wouldn’t blink—for fear of the small glove and grass-stained baseball vanishing like a mirage on a heat-soaked Nevada highway.
Tilting her head, she read the faded markings on the palm of the glove. Four awkwardly written letters just below the Rawlings logo.
ZEKE.
Until one day he hands over his worn, smelly glove to his own son.
The tears spilled over, plip-plopping on the bedcover, as she recalled Zeke’s prediction that the game would whisper to Brodie again. She swiped a hand over her damp cheeks and placed a trembling kiss against her son’s soft cheek.
He roused at the spidery touch. A sleepy whine rumbling from his throat until his hand raked across the bed, seeking the comfort of an old friend, the smooth texture of worn leather.
The tension released, and his body sagged into the mattress, his breathing deepening as visions of home runs and double plays pulled him back to sleep.
Liv straightened and backed away, closing the door on a soft click. In the hallway, she stood with one hand on the door handle and her forehead pressed against the smooth wood panel while she fought to get her own breathing and emotions under control.
Did Brodie toss a ball around with Zeke? Sadie? One of the other Blackwells? Or did he quietly sit with the glove and ball, considering?
In truth, she didn’t care which. Seeing him in such close proximity with a tool of a sport he once loved so much was enough.
Pushing away from his door, she glanced between her bedroom and the stairs leading down to the Great Hall. Down to Zeke.
She wanted to thank him for what he had done for her son, wanted to thank him for the priceless gift. She wanted. . . so many things.
Would he welcome her company? Or be counting down the seconds until she returned upstairs?
The latter possibility made her hesitate. But only for a moment. Leaving her shoes in the hallway, she eased down the stairs until Zeke came into view.
Drink in hand, he stared up at the empty space above the fireplace’s mantel. The space where Lupos might be right now if not for her.
As she watched, he drained his glass and, in a violent move, launched it into the stone cavern. Crystal shattered and flames shot upward.
Frustration and fear blasted through the room and rammed up the staircase, pushing her upward and away. She retreated, her heart aching for the part she’d played in causing his pain.
In her suite, she shimmied out of her clothes, caught her long hair up into a topknot, and allowed the hot shower spray to rinse away the heaviness of the evening. She stayed there for several minutes. Hours, maybe. Long enough for her throat to loosen and her breaths to even out.