Page 36 of Under Locke & Key
“Divorced.”
If we weren’t conspiring, whispering in the corner, Ángel might have whooped out a victorious laugh.
“That doesn’t change the fact that he’smy boss. I amcurrentlyon the clock, and I have no idea if he’s interested.” I thank goodness that the game master has started up some spooky soundtrack for our investigative task inside this supposed haunted house, because I really don’t want anyone on the other side of the room to know what I’m saying.
“Oh, he’s interested.” Sebastian pulls me out of my irritation at Ángel’s audacity, his eyebrow raised as he looks behind me, presumably at Bryce.
I sputter at Sebastian, unsure what to say and his half-smile stretches into a full blown grin before he speaks with unrestrained glee, “Oh shit. You’ve got it bad. I’ve never seen you flustered . . . ever.”
“I do not! I am not!” I say in a hushed, frantic voice. I know it’s petulant, protesting far more than what’s necessary, and Ángel just gives me a look that says I can try but I’m not fooling any of them. Despite keeping my text updates to them this past month as dry as possible, clearly I’ve given away too much.
“Let’s get to the fucking task at hand before I lose my damn job.” Grumbling, I start pulling open drawers looking for clues.
Our little group breaks up and soon we’re combing the room for anything that might get us answers so we can get the hell out of here. Gabrielle finds a hidden message in the mirror once she fogs it up. Logan tugs on the bust of the main character of the room and we hear a loud crash, something falling down through the chimney.
This is one of the better rooms we’ve done with a lot of interaction besides just finding locks and twisting combinations into them. We comb over the map for a clue as to where our victim went and who he met, trying to work backwards through our murdered homeowner’s last day to figure out who killed him and why.
The hour ticks by, every fifteen minutes punctuated by the ding of an analog clock above the door. Farren is first to integrate herself into Bryce’s group, Ángel following close behind. Sebastian has the sense to stay near me, or perhaps he’s still kind of wary of new people until he’s had time to suss them out.
Maybe he just wants to watch Farren bend over to tug on a loose floorboard and admire her backside, who knows? As for me—I’m overheating. I’m desperately scouring the last will and testament of Lord Huckleby when all I want to do is watch Bryce.
How his brows knit over those warm eyes and the way he tugs a corner of his bottom lip between his teeth when he’s concentrating too hard is distracting. I can smell his cologne all the way over here, not because it’s strong, not because I have some stupid heightened sense of smell, but because I know exactly what the scent is. I could conjure it from memory if I tried.
How the fuck am I going to make it through the remaining months of my contract and stay unaffected?
“Mind if I take a look?” Bryce asks behind me, as if I’ve summoned him through thirst alone.
“Not at all. I’m trying to figure out who had the most to gain from his death.” I don’t turn, afraid to when I can feel the heat of him behind me and if I do, if I step back, I’ll be too close in his personal space.
His hand reaches over my shoulder, his bicep next to my cheek and he takes hold of the parchment—right above my hand, his pinky touching my thumb. Bryce shuffles slightly closer, looking at the paper that’s totally blurred in my vision, because he’s against me now. Just barely. Just enough to make me forget how to swallow properly.
Those notes of his scent that teased me across the room totally invade my senses.
“It was his nephew,” he says and I feel the words against my back, the rumble of them passing through me like I’m made of air and pulled taut as a drum.
“Look.” Bryce leaves me holding the parchment and runs his finger along the line bequeathing the fortune to Huckleby’s nephew, Henry.
And then he’s gone, across the room before I can suck in a shuddering breath that doesn’t carry his smell.
“Try ‘Henry’ on the letter lock!” Bryce says.
Ángel fumbles with the wooden rods, twisting them so the five letters align perfectly and then a book dips down from the bookshelf behind us, a soft clutter sounding behind it. I tug the book from the shelf and inside is a small (fake) dagger coated in blood (also fake) with the initials HH carved into the handle.
“Congratulations! You solved the murder of Lord Huckleby and found Henry’s dagger before he could come back to catch you snooping, without any hints and within forty minutes. Good job, everyone!” A disembodied voice sounds over a speaker, startling us in the room.
A few moments later the host comes into the room with a camera and urges us to stand in front of the fireplace to take a group picture. Somehow I end up wedged in the middle, caught between Bryce on one side and my friends on the other. Bryce’s arm wraps around my waist from behind, his other likely doing the same to whoever is on his other side, but it’s scorching. The imprint of his large hand on my side feels like standing too close to a fire, not hot enough to burn but dangerous all the same if I take just one step nearer.
“Thank you so much!” Bryce thanks the host and we follow suit, filing out of the building and onto the sidewalk.
“You guys want to grab some dinner? There’s a good Asian place near here,” Farren offers and the group agrees.
I’m last to join them outside, off kilter, and Ángel notices.
Threading his arm through mine, locking elbows like we’re Jack and Jill bounding up a fucking hill. “Come on, let’s get you fed. You always function better when you have carbs in your system.”
“I’m not sure food’s going to fix this, Ángel.”
He tuts in understanding, “You either need to get over it or be brave enough to take a risk.”
