Wicked Truths (Hunt Legacy Duology #2) - Jodi Ellen Malpas Page 0,141

a suitable place to pee. I perch on the side of the fountain as I watch him cock his leg, his body visibly shaking as he relieves himself.

‘Yeah, fine. We thought we’d catch a bit of TV before hitting the sack,’ she says, and I frown for two reasons. One, because Winston is still peeing like a cart horse, and two, because Lucy can’t have called me just to tell me that.

‘Right . . .’ The word streams out over a few seconds.

‘And what do we see?’

Is that a genuine question? ‘I don’t know, what do you see?’

‘The fucking ruby!’

‘Oh,’ I laugh. ‘So it made the news?’

‘Because it’s been fucking stolen.’

I’m on my feet in a heartbeat ‘What?’

‘Stolen, Eleanor.’

My mind just officially exploded, scattering flashbacks of my evening everywhere – the blackout, the ruby, the chaos as Becker hauled me out of Countryscape. ‘And it’s on the news?’

‘Yes! We were there on the night of a heist that’s going to go down in fucking history.’ Lucy sounds almost star-struck, while I’m just . . . struck.

‘Wow.’

‘Wow? Is that all you’ve got to say?’ She sighs. ‘Fine, Mark and I will be excited alone. Speak later.’

The line goes dead, and I remain unmoving, my phone suspended at my ear, as my mind goes into overdrive. ‘Stolen?’ I ask myself, seeing the two big fellows flanking the cabinet, plus all the cameras dotted around Countryscape. It would be impossible. I start laughing at the absurdity, then I sharply stop. Stolen. I begin to circle on the spot as my phone drops slowly to my side, my eyes taking in the perfection of Becker’s sanctuary. The pure, peaceful place that’s now my home. The place that harbours so many secrets. I should be tracking Becker down and sharing this mammoth news. I should be running to find him. But something is telling me that this won’t be news to him. Something too loud to ignore. And this time, I know it can’t be Brent.

My muscles come to life and lead me out of the courtyard, Winston hot on my heels. I’m on a mission and though my body seems perfectly set on where it’s heading, my head isn’t quite keeping up. My thoughts are a mish-mash of . . . all kinds of wild things. Unbelievable things.

Weaving through the stock of the Grand Hall, I let myself into the main hub of The Haven and I’m at the library a few seconds later. Winston goes to make himself comfortable on one of the chesterfield couches, and I go straight to the bookshelf that’s been a source of fascination since I discovered the secret compartment.

I reach between the shelves, I feel, I find, and I pull. Then I stand back and wait for the compartment to reveal itself.

The clicking of some mechanisms, the slow creaking of wood shifting, the extended time it takes . . .

It’s like a scene from a movie, one of those pinnacle moments when everyone is holding their breath, when everyone knows something monumental is about to be revealed. I don’t realise that I’m holding mine until my lungs start screaming. ‘Oh . . . my . . . God . . .’ I wheeze, my hands coming up to my face and covering my mouth, almost as if I’m preparing to hold back the gasp of shock that I think might be coming.

Everything is functioning of its own accord, on autopilot, and I’m just going with it, not resisting, not fighting, just accepting that I am on the cusp of an immense discovery. It scares me, and, infuriatingly, it thrills me. It’s got me swallowing repeatedly and trying so very hard to steady my trembling body.

Breathing in through my nose, I step forward and reach into the darkness, taking hold of the leather book as I release my stored air calmly. I’m not feeling calm. I’m feeling all kinds of scrambled. I pull the leather-bound book from the darkest depths of the bookshelf and stare at it for a few moments. Then I open it up. I finger the edges of the map poking out at the back for a few moments, but that isn’t what I’m here to see. I turn the first page. And I see everything that I saw before, the very first time I clapped eyes on this book. I see Picasso’s Harlequin Head, I see the Fabergé egg, and I see the Stradivarius violin.

I don’t know why I’m only realising it now – maybe