A Book of Spirits and Thieves - Morgan Rhodes Page 0,59

three gorgeous sons. But something was different . . .

The mark under his eye. He didn’t have it in the pictures.

I can’t believe I remember something like that, she thought.

Farrell Grayson, the overprivileged rich kid whose handful of arrests and bad boy ways landed him regularly in the Toronto headlines. Yes, she definitely knew who he was by reputation alone.

Crys glanced over her shoulder at the boy in black and red standing in the same spot she’d left him. Perhaps she should have taken it as a compliment that he wanted to buy her a coffee, even if just to pick her brain.

But she had way more important things to do than pay attention to boys. Especially ones who had trouble written all over them.

Chapter 14

FARRELL

It didn’t cost much to bribe high school students for information. Sixty dollars, and Farrell had everything he needed.

Tuesday morning, he went to Sunderland High and learned that Crystal Hatcher had managed (barely) to maintain passing grades, despite missing nearly three weeks’ worth of classes since January. Her favorite and best subject was art and her worst and least favorite was calculus.

She lived with her sister and mother in the apartment above the Speckled Muse Bookshop, a small local business that had been in Crystal’s family for several generations. The bookshop was a downtown tourist attraction not only because the building that housed it was one of the oldest in the Annex, but also because it was rumored to be haunted. Sales had slowed in the last few years with the growing popularity of e-books and the lower prices and larger selections of big bookstore chains and online retailers.

On a more personal level, there was some speculation among her classmates over whether or not Crystal had seen her father since her parents separated two years ago.

Out of the six senior students Farrell had questioned, only two considered Crystal a friendly acquaintance, but not a close friend. Crystal’s two closest friends had recently moved to Vancouver and Miami. Three informants admitted they didn’t know her very well at all. And one—a girl with a sneer and a sour attitude—thought she was a “total bitch.”

That one caught his interest.

Crystal Hatcher, the bitchy loner who liked art and not much else. According to her friendly acquaintances, she didn’t have a boyfriend, but one girl noted that she’d mentioned somebody named Charlie with great affection in recent weeks.

And none of them had seen her at school since last Thursday.

He’d found a yearbook photo of her that showed an unsmiling girl with jet-black hair and unusually pale eyes. He tore it out and pocketed it, then headed over to Bathurst, a little north of Bloor Street, to lurk outside the bookshop until he saw her leave.

She looked a lot different from her yearbook photo. Her long hair was tied in a messy ponytail that cascaded down her back, and it was bleached so blond it was nearly white. She wore black-rimmed glasses that were far too large for her face. Faded jean jacket, ankle-length black skirt, black steel-tip boots. A flash of color came from her bright fuchsia bag. As she passed him without even glancing in his direction, he caught the scent of strawberries.

Strawberries were his favorite fruit.

Feeling confident, he followed her to the U of T campus, then waited for her to come out of the building she’d disappeared into before going in for the kill. When it was time, he approached her with his very best smile in place and poured on the charm. . . .

And was quickly discarded like yesterday’s news.

This never happened to him.

As such, he wasn’t sure what to do about it other than stare after her in disbelief as she walked away.

Darkness stirred within him in reaction to his failure, and the scent of strawberries stayed with him for hours afterward as he tried to figure out what he’d done wrong.

“Are you listening to me?”

Felicity Seaton gazed across the table at Scaramouche—a high-end French-inspired restaurant with a stunning view of the city—over her glass of club soda and cranberry juice.

“Of course I am,” he replied, indicating to the waiter that he wanted another vodka on the rocks. It would be his third since this blind date began.

He wasn’t sure why he hadn’t canceled. It wasn’t as if his mother could be any more disappointed in him than she already was.

For some reason, this had seemed like a good idea. A date with a suitable girl who could give him the air of