“I’ll come back to you,” he promises. “But he never will. He never will.”
“I believe you,” I say, remembering my advice to myself: I have to make him stronger, not give him doubts. “You will win. I know that.”
His phone rings and he grimaces. “Bad timing.”
“No, it’s business. It’s about ending this. Take the call.”
My response pleases him. I see this in the admiration in his eyes, which in turn pleases me. It also earns me a fast, hard kiss before he grabs his phone where it rests on the bed, answering it. In the meantime, I refocus on the computer screen and tab through more footage, laughing yet again as Marabella grimaces at one of our messes. Over and over today, she’s entertained us without even knowing she’s doing so. She ignores my journal every time she sees it, passing it by to worry over some dusty or dirty spot, more interested in cleaning and cooking than my inner thoughts.
“Everything is on target on Carlo’s end,” Kayden says after his call. “He’s stirred buzz among the Paris Jackals that Alessandro stole from them and from Neuville, and our plan to have proof landing in the right hands at the right time still looks right on schedule.”
“But can he do it without making it seem like a setup?”
“I didn’t make him a Hunter for no reason, sweetheart,” he says. “The magnificence that is Carlo is in his ability to manipulate people and situations.” He glances at his shiny new Rolex, and I try not to think about that watch delivery. “It’s four o’clock. I don’t know about you, but those pancakes wore off a good hour ago.”
“I’m starving, for sure,” I say.
“We could raid the kitchen, but we’re pretty comfortable here. Why don’t I just bring us whatever I can find?”
“I’d like that,” I agree, just as eager as he is to keep our private little escape alive and well.
He kisses my forehead, a tender act I’ve come to expect and cherish from him, before he heads toward the door, effortlessly graceful and powerful. I inhale and watch him disappear into the hallway, still bothered by how I’ve felt watched there, and now I just . . . don’t. My lips thin and I turn back to the computer, but this seems almost useless. We’ve found nothing, not even an oddity in the film that might indicate a splicing. And the bathroom and closet have no cameras, so I might have torn the pages out there.
Still, this nagging feeling that something isn’t right won’t go away, and I start scanning footage again, finishing the last few screen shots we have to review, then starti
ng all over again.
“I have something for you,” Kayden says, drawing my attention back to the door, where I find him approaching with a book in his hand.
“That doesn’t look edible.”
“Not edible,” he says, “but I do think you’ll like it.” He stops beside the bed and hands me what turns out to be a copy of the book Carrie, the same book my father had owned. “I thought it might help you remember more about your father and your past.”
“I can’t believe you have this. Thank you.”
“Kevin was a diehard King fan, and he was a big reader. He always said that a good Hunter was an educated Hunter, and that meant reading often and broadly, fiction and nonfiction.” He motions toward the door. “I’ll leave you to it and grab that food.”
“Okay,” I say, amazed at how he hits every right mark for me.
He walks away and I call out, “Kayden.”
He stops at the doorway and turns to me, arching a brow. “Really,” I say, holding up the book. “Thank you for this. It feels like a little piece of him right here in Italy.”
“I’m glad,” he says softly, giving me a tiny nod and then disappearing.
I turn my attention to the book and start flipping through pages, and in my mind, I see so very much. I grab a piece of paper and start writing. Events play in my mind and I can’t wait to tell Kayden. I keep hold of the piece of paper, and I run down the hallway and into the kitchen.
“What is it?” Kayden asks, setting a plate down on the island, clearly reading my urgency.
I meet him on the opposite side of the island. “I just remembered things. Lots of things. This is what I found on the paper inside my father’s copy of the book, and it wasn’t his handwriting. It was someone else’s.” I rotate the pad to show him what I’ve printed:
Urgent: Tell DOD, Candycand5 to RumbleRed11, bury deep. That problem is a problem.
“What’s this address you’ve written underneath it?” Kayden asks.
“I found it in another part of his copy of the book,” I say. “Both were torn off in tiny strips that were barely noticeable. I’d been cleaning out the house to sell it and I wanted to feel close to my dad, so I took it to bed with me to read.”
“Sounds like the book was a way someone delivered him information.”