The job?
She had been up late with pointless worry, and come morning had needed extra foundation to cover the dark circles ringing her eyes. Some re-entry into the working world. Simon left the house before Nina, giving her a quick kiss good-bye and a few words of encouragement for the big day. Instead of talking about the night before, they’d talked briefly about him coming home early to let Daisy out and about maybe looking into doggie daycare now that she was working. That was it—until this phone call.
“Hey, babe,” Simon said when Nina answered. “How’s the first day going?”
“Good,” she said rather hesitantly. As they talked, Nina became more animated, describing her office and giving vague details about her first case.
At some point, the conversation stalled.
“I’m sorry again about last night,” Simon said. “I’m actually not feeling well. Almost had to call in a sub, but I think I’ll make it through the day.”
Simon’s apology, while appreciated, did not make Nina feel better. She’d never failed to arouse him before.
“Is it my new hairstyle?” she asked apprehensively. “Are you upset about it?”
“God, no, you look beautiful. No, no, it’s me, I wasn’t feeling well, that’s all.”
But Nina wasn’t going to test that theory out. She had already made an emergency appointment that afternoon with her hairdresser, and she’d even used her phone to take a picture of the model so there would be no question about how it should be styled.
And Simon would be delighted.
CHAPTER 21
Today was the day I would prove to Mom that Simon had another side to him—an evil side. There hadn’t really been a good opportunity to execute my brilliant plan until now. Mom was at work (first day on the job, three cheers for Mom!); Connor was at practice; Simon, I think, was out in the yard; and I was in the basement, looking for something. There was a lot of junk in our basement: storage containers filled with snow pants and boots, holiday decorations, plates and dishes that had been banished here for whatever reason, lots of things we had moved that really should have gone to the dump.
There was also a wide workbench and cabinet with all of Simon’s tech stuff for building robots. Nearby, on the floor, was Simon and Connor’s creation, which they cleverly named Bob. It was shaped like a stop sign and had four wheels bolted to its metal sides. I thought Simon’s love of tech and history was a bit odd, but he was fond of saying that the past informs the future.
I grabbed a fold-up chair and positioned it in front of a storage unit that was pushed against the back wall. If it were a dangerous weapon, something that could shoot more than one lead slug every three minutes, Simon might have kept it locked up in a safe. But we kids were older, and supposedly knew better than to play with guns or mess around with things that didn’t belong to us. Besides, I didn’t see any ammo around.
I got Simon’s antique musket down with ease. It was wrapped in a soft fleece blanket, along with the bayonet, which wasn’t attached. I didn’t see any gunpowder or ancient bullets nearby, but I wasn’t about to load the stupid thing and shoot Simon dead. I’m not a maniac.
The gun felt lighter than I expected, about the weight of a baseball bat, maybe a bit heavier. I stepped down from the chair and lifted the musket to eye level, picking up a faint scent of oil, like engine oil, or WD-40, some treatment to keep it in working condition. I examined the various components and saw there wasn’t really much to it. The wood was dark and rough, like the hull of a ship that sailed in cold seas. The long gun barrel had some rusty spots, and plenty of dings, like it had seen some action, but it looked to be in pretty good condition.
I was mostly interested in the trigger mechanism. It was pretty cool to see it up close, I had to admit. Kids went bonkers to touch Mr. Fitch’s rifle, and here I was holding it in my hands like I was playing soldier or something. The metal of the trigger was silver-colored and badly tarnished. There were some letters carved into a silver plate—HENSHAW, I think it read. I could barely make out a date, 1772, that had also been etched into the soft metal.
I called Ben at home, and he