Page 60 of For Dear Life

“You sound horrified, Violet. Almost as if you care.” There’s no teasing, only an expressionless tone.

“I do care when confronted with people who hurt and bully others.”

“Not the ones who receive the hurt and bullying?” he asks.

As I stand, we’re closer than we’ve been in a while, but not as close as in the closet. “I care what happens to you, Grayson. I don’t want you to get hurt.” His eyes brighten. “I don’t want any of my friends getting hurt.”

Grayson laughs softly. “I would be upset at the ‘friend’ part, but as I’m promoted from acquaintance, there’s hope yet.”

“What on earth does that mean? Your biggest focus right now is your uncle dragging you away to do who knows what.” I swallow. “That can’t happen. I’ll ask Dorian to stop him.”

“I’ll be alright. I might even find some useful clues for the investigation,” he says lightly.

I’m suddenly aware my heart rate increased and as I look at Grayson, the same response as to Leif last night jumps in. “Everything isn’t all about my investigation, Grayson.”

He steps back and mock gasps. “What?”

I clench my teeth. “Didn’t you listen? I don’t want my friends to get hurt.”

“Because that’s unjust?”

“Because I care about them!”

The words fall from me before I weigh up whether to speak to them, and they’re as big an escape as when the hybrid burst out unprompted. That man in the room looking at Grayson the way he was, glancing between us and projecting hatred that only grew when Dorian walked in, tore through to open the other side of me.

And again, the same visceral reaction to when Leif’s fear touched me yesterday fills my body. Exactly like my worry for Marci’s intentions with Holly have buried into my mind and nag at me.

How can I live alongside people and not begin to consider their lives? People do things to help each other because they’re good people. I’m not a good person and can’t fully understand these people’s choices and behaviors, but I have some capacity to help those who deserve help.

Yet that’s logic, and I’m responding to Grayson illogically.

My draw to Grayson already saw me protect him against Dorian at my house, and I want to keep Grayson from harm just as he wanted to protect me in his accidentally murderous way. And I will. Not using the hybrid side who could easily out-fight Josef Petrescu and leave the man a torn mess in a pool of his blood. No—in a careful, planned, but still permanent way.

The door opens. “How wonderful to see our families reforging a friendship,” says Josef as he looks between us. “Unfortunately, as partners in crime, but a charming show of trust between the two children.”

Children. Ugh.

Dorian runs his tongue along his teeth. “I want Grayson at this meeting, Josef,” he says evenly.

“And I’ll attend,” I add, quietly seething when my father doesn’t respond.

Sawyer walks by giving curt goodbyes and Josef pulls himself straight. “Come along, Grayson,” he says, as if speaking to a puppy.

“Not speaking to your client first?” asks Dorian. “Alone.”

“And waste precious time with my nephew?”

A tightness seizes my chest as Josef takes Grayson by the elbow and guides him away from us, Grayson not saying goodbye. Something opposite to my last response to Grayson walking away washes over me, and I fight rushing after them. Grayson can’t leave.

Dorian watches them go and turns back to the room. “Now. I’ll explain what I’ve found and what you are and are not to do.”

Grayson and his uncle disappear around a corner, and I blink away my thoughts and fear before following Dorian back inside Mr. Willis’s office. The photographs are again spread on the table, and Dorian stands back, rubbing his chin as I sit and look at them.

“This witch is Grant Underhill. He works locally, another businessman—accountant—so his connections could be valid. Except he’s also friendly with this man.” He taps an image of someone I’ve never seen. “Adam Woodlake. He’s registered as a duo—elemental and mind magic—and works in a completely unrelated industry and town. There’s no reason for his connection to Underhill and Sawyer, yet...” He taps a third photo of Sawyer sitting in a restaurant with both witches. “Here they all are, meeting.”

“And Maxwell?” I ask.

“Nobody has that first or surname, and your image from the lodge isn’t clear. Sawyer never reported the fire, and my men found no body. A witch scrambled Sawyer’s mind.” I look away. I know. “Violet. I hope you didn’t invade his head.”

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