Chapter 1 - THE LUNCH NO ONE HAD MADE HIM
The strangest thing about cooking lunch for a man I had accidentally broken into was how quickly it began to feel normal.
Dominic Vale liked his eggs scrambled soft.
I discovered that after presenting him with three choices and receiving the expression of a man being asked to negotiate international peace.
“Soft,” he finally said.
“See? Communication.”
I added spinach, tomatoes, and cheese, toasted the sourdough, and slid the plate toward him.
He stared at it.
Then at me.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“You’re staring at eggs like they’ve offended your family.”
His gaze dropped again.
“No one has cooked in this kitchen for a long time.”
That silenced me.
For maybe four seconds.
“Well, whoever shops for you needs supervision. Your tomatoes were two days away from becoming a science project.”
His mouth moved again.
Definitely a smile this time.
He ate everything.
I fixed the leak beneath the sink, wiped down the counters, and finally decided I should probably leave before the actual owner of 127 Montrose Place remembered that normal people called the police when strangers entered their homes.
I held out the key.
“I’m guessing you want this.”
Dominic took it.
Then froze.
He turned the small brass key over.
There was a tiny letter engraved near the base.
V.
His expression changed.
“Where did you get this?”
“I told you. My agency.”
“Who gave it to you?”
“My supervisor left the work packet at the front desk.”
He stood.
At six-foot-four, Dominic standing was considerably more alarming than Dominic sitting.
I took one step backward.
He noticed.
Immediately, he stopped advancing.
That surprised me.
“I’m not going to hurt you,” he said.
“I appreciate the clarification.”
“Your agency shouldn’t have this key.”
“Because it opens the wrong house?”
“Because there are only three copies.”
I stared at him.
“One is mine. One is in a bank vault.”
“And the third?”
Dominic looked toward the kitchen doorway.
Something old and painful entered his face.
“My mother had it.”
I glanced down at the key.
“Had?”
“She died eighteen years ago.”
Rain tapped against the windows.
The humor vanished from the room.
“I’m sorry.”
Dominic barely seemed to hear me.
He picked up my work order.
127 Montrose Place.
My name.
Elena Brooks.
He read it twice.
Then his eyes stopped on my last name.
“Brooks.”
“Yes.”
His face went completely still.
“What was your mother’s name?”
A strange chill ran along my arms.
“Grace.”
The key slipped slightly between his fingers.
“Grace Brooks?”
“Yes.”
Dominic sat down again.
Not slowly.
Like his knees had unexpectedly stopped cooperating.
I stared.
“You knew her?”
He looked toward me.
And suddenly the frightening man with the scar didn’t look frightening at all.
He looked stunned.
“Your mother,” he said quietly, “was the last person who ever carried that key.”
May you like
Then he said something I never could have expected.
“And seventeen years ago, Grace Brooks saved my life.”
