Page 78 of What the River Knows

He turned his head halfway in my direction. “Was that a serious question?”

It had been, but now I regretted asking. “The moment has passed.”

Whit faced forward. “Probably for the best.”

There he went, using my words against me. How unspeakably annoying.We said nothing until I pulled out an easy question as we walked through the pylons. “What are you going to do for the rest of the day?”

“Assist Abdullah. What did you think of him?”

“I like him,” I said. I couldn’t quite keep a twinge of bitterness out of my tone. Had my parents wished it, I could have met him years ago. “I wish I knew him better. I barely know the story of how my uncle and Abdullah met.”

“They infuriated each other from the first.” Whit slowed down, shortening his strides. “Ricardo was a young excavator, utilizing tools and practices he’d learned in Argentina. Abdullah took one look at his methods and proceeded to correct every single one.”

I laughed. “I can imagine how much my uncle appreciated that.”

“Oh, he hated it. But digging in the desert is entirely different than moving around rocks. He’s learned a lot from Abdullah regarding excavating in Egypt. Then he married Abdullah’s sister, Zazi. Did you ever meet her?” Whit fell silent. “They rarely speak of her, but she loved Egyptian ancient history. It makes sense she and your uncle got married, and why he’s still here, doing what she would have wanted. Your uncle is very loyal.”

“My mother said her death hit him hard.” I frowned, recalling a long-ago conversation I’d overheard during his last—and only—visit to Buenos Aires. “She said he could be reckless at times, moody.”

Whit nodded, thoughtful. “That is certainly true. Abdullah keeps him in line, though.”

I tried to keep my tone nonchalant. “Can you?”

His gaze flickered to mine. “That’s not my job.”

“Whatisyour job?”

“I told you, I assist—”

I shook my head. “No, I’m talking about your other duties.”

His expression turned stony. “I’m his secretary—”

“His secretary who carries a gun? Who follows people out of dining rooms? Who stays out all hours of the night?”

Whit stopped, his eyes hard. “You won’t stop, will you?”

I shook my head again.

“I get him things,” he said shortly. “Sometimes it’s information. Sometimes it’s something he’s lost.”

The stern line of his mouth forbade any more questions. But I’d learned enough. Whit did things my uncle wouldn’t dare to. It didn’t sound legal, and the hard edge to his voice made me think it was sometimes unsafe. I wished I could ask him more questions. I wanted to know if he liked his job, I wanted to know why he would risk his life for my uncle—a man who was involved with criminals.

Like Mr. Whitford Hayes.

He turned and began walking, his tone friendly and engaging, as if he were a host at a dinner party. He talked as if the last few minutes hadn’t happened. It was his way of diverting me. As if I could ever forget the real reason why I was there in the first place. But I knew enough about him to know that pushing him now would be pointless.

“Most of the excavation team have been with us for ten years or so,” he said. “As a result, the crew is highly sought after but they refuse to work with anyone else. Your uncle pays very well, thanks to your family’s generous contributions, and he also works alongside everyone. You’d be surprised at how many archaeologists here don’t want to get their hands dirty.”

My mood soured.

Now my uncle had unrestrained and unchecked access to my fortune. Frustration stole over me. Everything inside me screamed that my parents’ deaths had something to do with their fortune.

Terror gripped me in an icy hold.

“What are you thinking about?”

I blinked.

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