Page 8 of Made in Malice

I sort through his answers to my questions. “Who hired you?” I turn to face him.

He takes the time to look down at me before answering. “Your grandparents.” His dark eyes roam over my face as if he’s searching for something.

“Do you know them?”

He looks away. “Knowing them in your context suggests a familiarity that we do not share. I have worked for them for a year or two,” he hedges in a formal tone.

“You’ve met them though?”

“I have,” he answers, but he doesn’t volunteer anything else.

An older white suburban pulls up to the curb, and the passenger window rolls down, but not before Alden shifts so he’s standing in front of me. He takes this protector thing pretty seriously by the looks of it.

I lean around him to see a younger dude with acne ask, “You need me to open the back?”

“Wait for me here, Miss Devlin,” Alden tells me, then louder, he replies to the driver, “Yes.”

It only takes him a minute to load the trunk, suitcases, and other bags into the back of the SUV, then he returns to the curb and opens the rear passenger door, motioning for me to get in with a wave of his hand. I let him see my side-eye as I climb in and plop my rump on the seat.

“That your dad?” the guy asks, watching Alden jog around the other side in the rearview mirror.

“Hardly,” I reply softly as Alden slides in next to me. First, he doesn’t look that old, and second, he’s about a foot taller than me, and that’s just the beginning of our differences. His eyes and hair are a deep brown, while my hair could be called muddy blonde. When I was younger, it was nearly white, but that dulled by the time I was in third grade. My eyes are a funny blue green color that seem too bright for my pale skin, but they are the best thing I have going in the looks department, so I’ll take them.

“Airport?” the driver asks as if we didn’t already give him the destination on the app.

“Yes,” Alden answers for us.

Nervousness I was able to ignore when I was too focused on Alden’s appearance surges through my stomach. I can’t believe I’m about to get on a plane to meet people I didn’t even know existed three days ago. “I’m probably going to end up in a ditch somewhere,” I mumble, assuming no one will hear me over the man singing about how much he loves his truck on the radio.

“I’m here to prevent that or anything else, Miss Devlin,” Alden tells me, but his tone is flat. Maybe I offended him, and he thinks I don’t believe he could protect me. How the heck do I tell him I’m more worried about the stupid choices I’ve made up until this point than I am about him?

“Nova, you can call me Nova,” I murmur, then let my head fall back against the seat for the short ride.

“What do we do now?” I ask once we’re in the airport. Considering I didn’t know he would be with me, I’m relying pretty heavily on Alden.

“Have you ever flown commercial?” He pushes a trolley with all my luggage stacked on it, and I’m glad he’s the one doing it, because he gets lots of looks, and I can’t tell if it’s just him or the expensive brand that has everyone’s attention.

“I’ve never flown period,” I tell him softly, but he’s got super hearing, so I know he picked it up. He does a quick double take of the side of my face.

“It’s not that unusual,” I defend.

“Why didn’t you take the jet? It’s much nicer, and you wouldn’t have had to deal with all…this,” he sneers as he glances around the busy airport.

“This seemed like the safer bet. Call me crazy, but an uptight dude randomly showed up at my door with promises about grandparents who I thought died before I was born wanting to meet me, so I’m a little skeptical about his motives to get me on a plane halfway across the country.” I’m exaggerating about the distance, but it feels that way to me.

Alden slows to a stop, his arms jerking the trolley back so the trunk shifts. I turn to look at him. He has one brow raised, looking like that wrestler who turned into an actor but with a little more hair.

“What?” I ask, looking around when he doesn’t say anything. “You think I’m nuts for even going at all, don’t you?”

“Miss Devlin—”

“Nova,” I interject.

“I have no idea what to think,” he continues.

“Same page.” I gesture between us. “If you see me on the news next week, or a Walmart corkboard for missing people, it’ll be safe to assume I was an idiot.”

While we’re waiting for my overpriced luggage to make it to the sorter thing, I pull the folded itinerary out of my bag. I refused to bring the small, monogrammed duffle with me when there was no need, so I left it in the luggage trunk, along with the fancy folder.

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