Becca was only fourteen. Too young to drive. She’d have to get dropped off first and text Meredith to let her know the coast was clear. If her parents ever saw them together, they’d probably lock Becca away for good.
Thinking about Becca and Zabby and her parents only hurt, so she shoved those thoughts aside.
“I love dogs,” she said, hearing the constricted sound of her voice.
“Are you sure about that?” Mr. Blakewood asked, apparently mistaking her distress for something it wasn’t.
Meredith cleared her throat. “I’m sure,” she said with more resolve.
“Okay… how about writers?”
Was Mr. Blakewood a writer? Meredith smiled. It would be so cool to work for a writer. When Meredith wasn’t studying, or working, or taking care of Oscar — which, admittedly, wasn’t that often since her whole life revolved around studying, working, or taking care of Oscar — she was reading.
Reading was her one refuge. Her one indulgence. She couldn’t read if Jamie was home. One look at Meredith with a book in her lap, and Jamie assumed she was doing nothing, and she should, therefore, pay attention to him.
But if he was offshore, and her studying was done — on nights she didn’t work while Oscar was playing or asleep — Meredith would sink into a book and feed her mind and her dreams for a few minutes. She loved fantasy best. Her favorite author was Laini Taylor. The Daughter of Smoke and Bone trilogy had wrecked her for anything else. No books she’d read before or since could touch its magic. But she read other genres too. She liked reading highly acclaimed contemporary novels. It made her feel smart and in touch with something bigger than the confines of her life if she heard someone at school talk about The Goldfinch or The Paris Wife.
So it was easy to answer his question. “I like dogs, but writers are a close second,” she said.
Mr. Blakewood laughed again. “Well, this just might work out. How about we set up a meeting?”
Meredith’s heart soared. “Great. What works for you?”
She heard him sigh. “I know it’s short notice, but if you’re free this afternoon, that would be awesome.”
Now, her heart raced. “I… um… I’m free right now.”
“You are?” He sounded as hopeful as she did, and her nerves settled just a little.
“Yeah, I am.”
“Wow… uh… okay… um… Meredith, there are some things we’ll need to… uh… discuss when you get here… some… uh… challenges that come with the position,” Mr. Blakewood said, now sounding more nervous than she was. “But we can go over all of that when you get here.”
Challenges? Meredith hesitated for a moment.
“Meredith? You still there?”
You don’t have to take the job if something’s off, she told herself. You can text Brooke the address so she can send the cops if you don’t come home.
“Yeah. What’s the address?”
“231 St. Louis, one block off St. Mary and Souvenir Gate… Do you know where that is?”
“St. Louis?” Had she heard him right? The address was just blocks away. If that were the case, the job had just got even better.
“Yes, it’s the two-story house. Light brown with white trim.”
Meredith beamed. “I’m not far. Give me two minutes.”
Chapter Four
“You what?” Gray scowled at his brother.
“I’m interviewing a young lady — a nurse in training — to come help you.” Baxter’s eyes danced with excitement. He looked so pleased with himself. The afternoon sun poured into Gray’s living room, seeming to light his brother with a ridiculous halo. “She’ll be here any minute.”
Frustration pressed against Gray’s temples. Or maybe it was the tumor. He kept seeing a shadow out of the corner of his eye, and straining to unsee it made his headache worse.
“But you’re supposed to be leaving today,” he argued. “You have an empire to inherit. You don’t have time for this.”
Bax’s overnight trip had stretched to two nights, and he’d insisted on watching Gray take his seizure meds for the third day in a row now.
Which meant for the last seventy-two hours, Gray’s novel had grown by only a couple of pages. He was supposed to be writing the scene when Detective Alex Booth discovered the hellhole where a human-trafficking ring kept their latest prey.
But with the meds, Gray couldn’t see it.
Without the Topiramate, he could picture everything. The sweat beaded on his hero’s forehead. The red welts where tie wraps dug into his victim’s wrists. The mottled grays of corrugated tin in the abandoned warehouse.
And he needed to see it to be able to write it.