Page 9 of Wicked Games

It must be a desperate bid to cure his loneliness. He’s all alone in this big house for the whole winter. I’d get lonely, too. And lonely people do dangerous things.

Wait. No, I shouldn’t be sympathizing with the enemy. Above all things, I cannot empathize withIan Fletcher. I should’ve gone somewhere else. Even Amelie’s house might’ve been a better option… one I didn’t think of until right this moment.

“Is Caleb invited to your party?” I finally ask.

He smirks.

I groan, throwing my hands up. “You couldn’t have warned me before?—”

“Before what, Wolfe? Before you got settled?” He looks pointedly at my bag by the door. “You didn’t even take off your shoes.”

True. It’s a runaway kid habit. Be ready to go in an instant.

I shake my head. “There’s not even a lock on the door?—”

“You can hide out in my room. There’s not a lock on it, but just imagine if Caleb found you? How pissed he would be.” He’s positively gleeful.

I narrow my eyes. “You’re not going to tell him?”

“Probably not.”

I groan and leave the room. I don’t trust Ian. Not that I particularly trust anyone at the moment, but Ian and Caleb are at the top of the shit list. Which furthers the point that it makes no sense why I would come here.

Is it too late to leave?

I was hoping to go to bed early tonight, sleep in, and then figure out how the hell my mother was involved with the Bryans’ daughter.Ifshe was involved. That would also include tracking her down. If I can find her, then I can prove her innocence—and in turn,myinnocence.

The Bryans will take me back.

Ian follows me downstairs, into the kitchen. I open the fridge and lean in. My mind is still buzzing, and I need a distraction so I don’t completely freak out about whose house I’m in.

A little nap made a world of difference in my thought process.

“By all means, make yourself at home,” Ian intones. “There’s enough meal-prepped shit between the fridge and freezer to last a month.”

I straighten and face him. “What? Why?”

“Mother Dearest makes sure I’m taken care of over the winter.” He leans against the island, watching me. “A chef comes in and prepares meals once a month. It’s a big ordeal. Time consuming. The whole house stinks like a restaurant for at least three days after. Lucky for us, she was just here a few days ago.”

A chef?

He pauses. “Margo?”

I blink and take a quick step back. I froze, I think.

“My mom is a personal chef.”

I clear my throat. Shewasa personal chef. Is she still? Did she find work with some other rich family? Finding her couldn’t be so easy… it would be laughable if she was employed by the Fletchers. That’s right under the Ashers’ noses. And mine, too.

“I’m familiar,” he replies.

“Because she works for your family?”

“No.”

“Then why say that part?”

He scowls. “I said it because it’s the truth. Why? Do you need things sugarcoated? Should we never talk about chefs, or murder?—”

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