a butler would be the least of the things she might have to explain.
After the couple hopped out of the building, Jo unlocked her door and turned to the doggen. “I’m going to say thank you again.”
“Call us if you need us, madam.” He presented her with a card and bowed low. “And I shall be pleased to collect you at any time.”
He didn’t leave until she had closed herself in, and she was willing to bet he waited until he heard the turn of the dead bolt before taking off.
Going over to the big window in the front, she pushed the venetian blinds aside and waited for him to emerge onto the sidewalk and get back in the car. As the Mercedes eased away from the curb and drove off, she looked at the business card. Only a number. No name or address.
What did she expect, though. Vampires-R-Us?
The shaking started as she sat down on her couch, knees together, ankles touching, hands resting on her thighs, just as she had been taught by her adoptive parents.
As her eyes traveled around her meager belongings—the framed photograph of a field of sunflowers on her wall, the notebook she’d left out before she’d gone to work, the sweater draped over the chair in the alcove—she didn’t recognize anything at all. Not the things she owned or those she had recently touched. Not the towel she had used on her own body and hung on that rod there in the bath. Not the bed she could see through the open door, the one that she always slept in.
Jo didn’t recognize even the clothes she had on. The boots seemed owned by another, the jeans something borrowed, the fleece and jacket the sort of thing she had taken from a kind soul who had wanted her to stay warm in the brisk spring night.
And the longer she sat here, in a quiet that was only interrupted when the couple above her started moving around to begin their day, she became even more estranged from herself.
Memory by memory, Jo sifted through her childhood, her school days, her college era, and then, more recently, her job at that real estate company, her unrequited crush on her playboy boss, and her meeting of Bill that had gotten her to the CCJ.
From time to time, in a relationship, perhaps with a lover or a friend, maybe even with a family member, information came to you, either firsthand, through something you witnessed, or secondhand, through something you heard from a credible source, that changed everything.
Like a bright light turned on in a dim room, suddenly, you saw things that you had been unaware of. And now that you did see them, even if that light was later extinguished, you could not return to your earlier opinion of, and connection to, the space. The furnishings. The wallpaper and the lamp.
Forever changed.
It was a relatively normal phenomenon, inevitable as you opened your life to others.
You just never expected it to happen with your own self. Or at least Jo didn’t.
Fumbling into her pocket, she took out her phone. Syn still had not called or texted, and she told herself not to try him again.
A minute later, she was calling him, and when she got his voice mail, she meant to hang up. She told herself to hang up. She ordered her hand to drop the damn thing away from her ear—
“Syn,” she heard herself say. “I, ah . . .”
Closing her eyes, she added her second palm to the hold, as if the cell was a precious object with a slippery surface, prone to a drop-and-shatter from which she would never recover.
“Can you please call me. I need to talk to you. I need to talk to . . . someone.”
To you, she amended in her head.
Everybody she had met in that underground facility had been kind to her . . . solicitous, concerned, and beyond nonthreatening. But the one she wanted to connect to, the anchor for her, the voice she needed to hear, was Syn’s.
There were all kinds of reasons this made no sense.
But it was the only thing she could choose in this situation that was, on all other levels, so completely, fricking unreal and out of her control.
Of course, she could only do the dialing part on her end.
Whether he answered her?
That was another thing she had no influence over.
Butch was on his leather sofa in the Pit, legs stretched out laterally across the cushions, torso propped