Legacy (Keeper of the Lost Cities #8) - Shannon Messenger Page 0,177

with him.

Keefe dragged a hand down his face. “I’m saying we focus on letting Foster practice inflicting. You and I will be here to make sure she doesn’t lose control of anything. But that’s what’s most important, right?”

“But Elwin and Livvy think it’s going to set back her recovery,” Fitz reminded him.

“Right… but… if it’s going to do that anyway, then why not test it out, let it set her back, and then she can focus on recovering?” Keefe countered.

“I don’t think it works that way,” Fitz insisted.

“And I don’t know how to just… inflict,” Sophie added. “I have to be angry and afraid—”

“So we’ll make you angry and afraid,” Keefe interrupted. “I mean, I feel like if there’s one thing Fitzy and I both excel at, it’s making you angry.”

“I can help with afraid!” Ro volunteered.

“No, you can’t!” Sandor warned.

“Actually, this might be a good idea,” Grizel told him, stopping Sandor from drawing his sword.

“You can’t be serious,” Sandor snapped back.

“Why not?” Grizel asked. “We’ll all be here to keep her safe.”

“How can it be safe if there are no physicians to monitor her?” Sandor countered. “And why don’t we see what her parents have to say?”

Round and round they went, and Sophie honestly didn’t know which side she was on—but then it didn’t matter because someone was clearing their throat behind them and they turned to find Mr. Forkle standing on the path, watching them. And he seemed…

Nervous.

It almost looked like he wanted to raise a crystal and leap away before any of them could ask why he was there.

And maybe that was because he knew Keefe would ask, “You found him, didn’t you? The guy in my drawing?”

“We did,” Mr. Forkle agreed. “Mr. Dizznee’s latest adjustments gave us the speed we needed to also search the archive, starting with the year we estimated you first saw the man, since we knew his appearance would match most completely at that point.”

“You have an archive?” Sophie had to ask.

“A very thorough one,” Mr. Forkle agreed. “And… that’s where we found him. The video didn’t give us his location, but it did give us a name that Mr. Dizznee and I were able to search for in several human databases.”

“You have access to human databases?” Sophie blurted out, even though she probably shouldn’t have been so surprised—and she definitely should stop interrupting Mr. Forkle because Keefe looked ready to combust with impatience.

“We do,” Mr. Forkle agreed, “and… I gave you my word that I’d let you know anything we found immediately. So… even though this goes against my better judgment… your mystery man’s name was Ethan Benedict Wright II.”

“Ethan Benedict Wright II,” Fitz and Keefe both repeated.

But Sophie was stuck on a different word—one she almost didn’t want to point out, since Keefe clearly hadn’t noticed that Mr. Forkle had used it, and she hated to snuff out the triumph and enthusiasm she could see in Keefe’s eyes.

Still, she forced herself to ask, “Was?”

And her heart thudded into her stomach when Mr. Forkle winced.

“What do you mean ‘was’?” Keefe asked her.

“That’s what I’m asking him,” Sophie said gently. “Mr. Forkle said his name ‘was.’ Not is. Did he legally change it?” she asked Mr. Forkle, trying to give Keefe what little hope she could.

Mr. Forkle sighed. “No. I said was because I found this.” He reached into his cape and pulled out what looked like a crinkled printout of a newspaper clipping.

And at the top, in big black letters, was the word “Obituaries.”

THIRTY-TWO

HE’S DEAD.”

Sophie couldn’t tell who said it.

There was too much roaring in her ears, between the cold ocean wind, her frantic pulse, and the ragged breaths she forced herself to take in.

But she knew exactly what Keefe was going to say next.

He looked like he couldn’t decide if he was going to run off and pick a fight with the gorgodon or hurl all over his shoes as he told them, “My mom had something to do with this.”

Not a question.

A fact.

“You don’t know that,” Sophie argued, snatching the obituary away from Mr. Forkle before Keefe could get his hands on it.

It took her overloaded brain three tries before any of the tiny black-and-white words sank in.

“Okay,” she said, wishing the three short paragraphs gave a little more information. “It says here that Ethan Benedict Wright II, and”—her stomach turned—“his ten-year-old daughter, Eleanor Olivia Wright, were struck by a bus outside of the British Library and killed instantly.” She told herself not to picture it. But she’d seen