Page 68 of Vow of Vengeance

Wrapping my arms around her, I pull her closer, burying my face in her damp, floral-scented hair.

“Sorry about the phone,” she whispers. “I had to know my family was safe.”

I think of how I spent my last half hour, mistrusting her, wondering if she could have been the one writing me messages. She’s a terrible liar. My gut tells me to trust her. I let go of everything between us that isn’t this gentle moment. I kiss the back of her head. She gives a satisfied sigh, her body relaxing against mine.

We sleep until eight, and we have tea and toast for breakfast. I tell her we’re cutting class today to spend the day together, which makes her smile. Then, I ask her what she wants to do with her day.

She looks up at me. “I’m about to ask you for the biggest favor of my life.”

I already know what she’ll ask for. Gian and I planned the entire trip on the phone last night. Still, it’s fun to make her ask since she hid the phone from me.

“After being so naughty? You need a favor?” I eye her.

Her pretty face flushes. “I need to go to Scotland. Today. Gian is helping me discover what happened to my father and more about my past.” She looks off, shaking her head to herself. “I don’t know why I need to know, but I do.”

Hearing how important this is to her, I feel bad for making her ask. I take her in my arms. “I know, baby. Gian and I have already planned everything out for you.”

“You have?” She stares up at me. I nod. She rises on tiptoe, planting a sweet kiss on my cheek. “Thank you!”

We each pack a bag and head to Inverness, the heart of the Scottish Highlands, set on the banks of the River Ness. Taking the private family jet, we arrive at a small pub, the address Gian gave us, in time for an early dinner. She warns me not to order the haggis.

The bar is cozy, with low ceilings, dark wood, and forest green wallpaper. Being later in the afternoon, Scottish accents fly around us as people banter and converse. It’s Thursday, so theearly-out-of-work crowd who want to extend the weekend are trickling in for drinks.

A couple of gray-haired men are drinking ale in the corner, engaged in a lively game of darts.

She says, “While we’re waiting for Gian, let’s investigate the whole ‘why my poem is on your phone screen’ question.”

“We know how it got there,” I offer.

“But we don’t know which villain dared to read and SHARE my private writing.” She gives me a serious look, her tone filled with distaste. “And what’s worse? They used that journal to rip your heart out of your chest and steal your money.”

The loyalty in her tone—her being angry for me—fills me with a good feeling of trust.

“Let’s focus,” she says. “What do we need to figure out?”

I say, “I want to know who sent me those messages and how many were your words.”

“Let’s find out.”

“How?”

She gets a mischievous gleam in her eyes as she unzips her bag. I watch as she pulls out the little contraband phone. She holds it up. “I hope it’s okay that I snuck this out of the closet when I packed my bag. I thought it might come in handy for this mission.”

“Okay,” I say.

“It’s an hour ahead in Italy, right?” she asks.

“Yeah…” Where is she going with this?

“So, it’s well into wine o’clock! My mom is a lightweight. Using this phone, I can try to get some answers.” She flips it open. “Can you text on this thing?”

Moments like these remind me how young she is. I show her how to text on the small screen.

Her nose crinkles. “This is going to take forever. Did you all really use these?”

“Back in the day. Should you call her instead?”

“I think text is better.” She shoots me a cop look. “Then we have evidence if we need to confront her later.”

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