Page 35 of Kings & Carnage

Willa

My chest tightened with nervousness as we made our way down the tree-lined drive to the stately house in the distance.

The last time I'd been here, I'd been alone and nervous for another reason: I’d known my plan to gain access to Dean Giordana's library hinged on the delivery I'd scheduled to arrive at exactly the right time.

It had also depended on Dean Giordana's widow reacting to the delivery in the way I'd expected.

Luckily, my plan had worked, but now I was back to square one because of my lost phone.

This time I wasn't nervous about being caught. I was nervous Dean Giordana's widow would take one look at me and slam the door in my face — she’d already been exasperated (suspicious?) when she'd finally kicked me out of the house on my last visit — or worse, that she wouldn't care what I had to say about the missing girls.

About Emma.

"I still think it's smarter for one of us to go with you," Oscar said from the driver's seat of the Mercedes Daisy had loaned us.

I still hadn't had a chance to ask about her story, but with every favor, I was more curious. She'd left a car for us — not the beautiful red car that looked like it was literally built for her but a luxurious black Mercedes — at a hiking turnout at the top of one of Blackwell Falls's trailheads. Neo had taken us to pick it up on his way to wherever he was meeting Hawk.

"I agree," Rock said. "Even if she doesn't chain you up in her basement, she might try to poison your tea or something.”

"She's not going to poison my tea," I said. "She doesn't even know I'm coming. Besides, how would it help me if you were there? She'd just poison your tea too.”

"That's where you're wrong," Rock said. "I don't even like tea.”

"You're not coming." I looked from Rock to Oscar as he pulled to a stop next to a BMW in front of the house. "Either of you. She won't talk to me if you're there.”

I didn't bother saying she might not talk to me at all. It was a risk we knew we were taking. If Mrs. Giordana had been aware of what her husband was up to, my visit might just make things worse.

She would know we knew.

She might even alert Roberto to our presence, giving him a heads-up that we were back in Blackwell Falls.

In the end, I still thought it was worth the risk. Roberto probably knew we would end up back at Blackwell Falls anyway, and if Mrs. Giordana preferred to live in denial about her husband's activities, we'd be no worse off than we already were.

"Then we're setting a time limit," Oscar said. He glanced at the dash on the Mercedes. "It's just after noon. If you're not out by one, we're coming in.”

I sighed. “Fine."

I didn't love the constraint — I had no idea how long it would take to get Mrs. Giordana to listen — but I knew they were just looking out for me.

"And don't drink the tea!" Rock said as I got out of the car.

I laughed in spite of the seriousness of the situation. He was still wearing his caftan, the absurdity of him crammed into the backseat in the billowy garment and shouting at me about tea temporarily overriding my nervousness.

I looked up at the stately mansion as I walked to the front door. It really was a beautiful home, old-fashioned and grand and tucked away on a private wooded lot, thanks to Mrs. Giordana's family money.

I wondered again what had prompted Dean Giordana to risk it all. He'd clearly struck gold with his wife. It had been clear in my last visit that she'd loved her husband despite their obvious differences in social standing.

He'd lived in this beautiful house with a woman who loved him and without a financial worry in the world.

It didn't make sense. Did Roberto have something on him? Something he'd been holding over Dean Giordana's head? Or had Dean Giordana, like so many people, harbored a dark side that prompted him to hurt others and risk everything that mattered to him?

I didn't have the answers. I wasn't even sure Mrs. Giordana had the answers, but Dean Giordana was the only connection I had to what Roberto had been up to and he was dead.

That meant Mrs. Giordana was our last resort.

I approached the carved door set into the house’s aged stone facade and rang the bell.

The last time I'd been here, I'd been clutching a notebook, a prop that had felt like a security blanket at the time. I'd been posing as a journalist from the school newspaper, had been able to hide behind a fictional purpose and identity.

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