Chapter 32 #3
It’s the first time he’s looked at Kym since we got here, and when their gazes lock, I can practically feel the shift in the air.
Kym meets his gaze, her expression not shifting, but there’s something about the way she looks at him—something sharp, almost annoyed, like she’s irritated that he’s even questioning her.
“I’m sure,” she says simply. “He sold me sheet music.”
And before I can process that, Lilia suddenly turns to me, hesitation in her expression. “Addie… didn’t he also talk to you after class once?”
Oh.
I almost forgot about that.
Kai raises an eyebrow at that, interest flickering in his gaze. “About what?”
I glance between them, shifting slightly. “He just… noticed something was wrong with me that day,” I admit. “He said I should come to him if I had any more problems.”
Lilia visibly shudders.
“Okay, well, he’s a definite suspect then.” Liam makes a face.
I sigh, rubbing my arms. “It’s definitely a guy.” And before anyone can ask, I clarify. “The intruder had a masculine build.”
And I also kicked him where it hurts.
I let out a breath, my arms folding over my chest. “You hired Sterling for a reason. Maybe we should just… let him handle it. Besides, we don’t even know for sure it’s Anderson yet.”
They’re really smart, sure. They probably think they can solve this themselves despite having someone on the case already.
Christian nods slowly, lips pressing into a thin line. “She’s right. We don’t. Until we do, we just keep an eye on him. Quietly. No need to jump to conclusions.”
Lilia hums, unconvinced, and I watch as she twirls a piece of hair around her finger.
“Or,” Liam says, lifting a hand, and sitting forward with far too much energy, “we could come up with an actual strategy. Like—I don’t know—stakeouts? Traps? Maybe install one of those—”
“Liam.” Bea’s tone is clipped, her expression pinched.
He pauses mid-gesture, blinking at her. “What?”
“I think you’ve said enough.”
Liam scoffs. “Said enough? Bea, I’m a fountain of ideas. A visionary. You can’t just—”
“You’ve said a lot of things, Liam,” Kai cuts in smoothly. “None of them helpful. All of them annoying.”
Liam freezes, hand flying to his chest like Kai just stabbed him through the heart. “That’s low. Even for you.”
Kai’s smile unfurls then, charming as ever. “Don’t be dramatic.” His gaze flicks lazily toward Liam, glinting with amusement. “I can go lower.”
Liam gapes at him, offended, while Lilia snorts into her sleeve. Christian, to his credit, doesn’t even look up from his notebook, just mutters, “No one doubts that.”
Liam leans forward, wagging a finger at Kai. “One of these days, Steele, someone’s going to knock that ego of yours down a peg.”
Kai only smirks wider. “And ruin the view from up here? Selfish.”
And that’s more or less how it is for the rest of the afternoon. Kai and Liam bickering like children, Liam occasionally dragging Kym into the argument, and Will making remarks every now and then that Lilia promptly shuts down.
Christian and Bea attempt to play peacemakers to no avail.
Eventually, it gets too cold.
“Cards?” Kai offers, lounging across the edge of the sofa, and although he’s only just asked, he’s already shuffling the cards.
“Poker?” Liam asks, already perking up.
Kai raises a brow. “Please. If we’re going to play, we’re going to play properly.”
Christian sighs. “I should’ve known.”
Kai ignores him. “Piquet. Maybe, Skat? Or Bridge, if we’re feeling democratic.”
I blink. “Those are real games?” I ask, at the same time Bea says, “Oh, yes!”
“Idiot,” Kai says plainly, his head tilting toward me.
“Sorry—what?”
Kai doesn’t even look up as he fiddles with the cards in his hands and does fancy tricks with them. “I only meant we should play the idiot. Durak, in Russian. That’s what it means. The fool left with cards when everyone else is out.”
Liam lets out a low whistle. “Mate, that’s cold.”
“It’s the name of the game,” Kai replies mildly.
My cheeks burn, but I say nothing.
“It’s always Russian games with you,” Liam mutters, stretching out on the floor like a cat. “What happened to good old Snap?”
“Snap,” Kai repeats, as if the word itself offends him. “You may as well suggest Go Fish.”
Will, from where he’s crouched by the fireplace, murmurs dryly, “He would if he could rig it.”
Christian doesn’t even look up from his notebook. “He probably already has.”
Lilia snorts into her tea.
Kai offers no denial. Just sets the deck down in the centre of the rug, fanned perfectly. “Durak it is. For the proletariat among us.”
“Oi,” Liam says, indignant.
Kai says nothing to that, already dealing the cards with an elegant flick of his wrist. Then, without being asked, he launches into an explanation of Durak which Lilia and I try to keep up with, though it’s harder than either of us wants to admit.
A few games in, Kai and Christian have won every round. Liam is fast asleep, snoring on the sofa, and Kym looks dangerously close to smothering him with a throw pillow.
It’s loud, it’s messy, and it shouldn’t make me feel as comfortable as it does. But by the time the light outside starts to fade, I even catch myself smiling.
Adeline
Two years ago
I walk beside Mason in a silence that would be awkward had I not been so used to it by now.
“So…” I try, my voice light. “I finally get to see what’s kept Dad so busy all this time.”
Mason says nothing. Not even a glance in my direction. He just keeps walking, hands jammed deep in his coat pockets, eyes fixed straight ahead.
I try again. “What’s it like there? The shop?”
“It’s nice,” he says flatly. Coldly. Like he’s speaking to a stranger.
I force a smile, trying not to let the sharpness of his tone sting too much. “Well, maybe I can come with you more after this and—”
“Just stop it,” he cuts in.
I blink. “Stop what?”
“Talking.”
He doesn’t even look at me when he says it. Just keeps walking, faster now, like he can’t even bear being next to me.
My chest tightens, but I don’t say anything.
He’s always like this. Detached. Dismissive. Mean in a way no one else seems to experience from him but me. And every time he shuts me out like this, I wonder what I did wrong.
What I always seem to do wrong.
When we reach the shop, Mason doesn’t wait for me, of course. He pushes the door open with a sharp creak and disappears inside without a word.
I follow more slowly, and the moment I step inside, I gasp in awe.
The shop is… beautiful.
Golden light spills through the front window, spreading onto every surface. Wooden shelves line the walls, filled with old books, rusted cameras, cracked globes, and vinyl records stacked in crooked tower.
There’s an entire section of antique clocks too, and of sheet music.
And even a collection of mirrors that hangs above a chest of drawers.
The place smells like old wood, leather, and something faintly sweet. Like oranges and pipe smoke.
A small, handwritten sign above the register reads: The Foundry. All things lost. All things found.
I almost smile at that.
Until I see my dad. He’s behind the counter, sleeves rolled to his elbows, carefully dusting the corner of a high shelf. His head turns when the bell above the door jingles, and the moment he sees me, his whole face lights up.
“Dad!” I rush over, relief blooming so fast it almost makes me dizzy.
He sets down the rag and opens his arms just in time for me to throw mine around him.
“Hey, there’s my girl,” he says warmly, hugging me back. He smells like cedarwood and old paper. “Been counting down the days.”
Mason comes up beside me, and smiles at Dad politely. He’s always like this around other people. Especially our father. It’s the version of Mason everyone else sees. The one I barely recognize.
I step back awkwardly, shoving my hands into my coat pockets.
Dad’s smile softens. “Glad you both came. I wasn’t sure if you’d actually show.”
“I said we would,” Mason replies, smile still intact. “We’re here to help, right?”
“Right,” Dad says with a nod. “Still a lot to organize before the official opening next month. Stock’s in, but half of it isn’t sorted properly.”
I smile faintly, but if I’m honest, I didn’t really come here for the shop. I mean, I’m happy to help. I want to help. But mostly, I just came to be near them. Mason. Dad. I’m tired of feeling so far from the people I’m supposed to be closest to.
“What should I do?” I ask, stepping around the counter, looking for something—anything—to make myself useful.
Dad thinks for a moment, then gestures toward a stack of vintage postcards and pressed flower bookmarks. “You can sort those by decade, if you’re up for it.”
“I’m up for it,” I say, already moving toward the table.
Mason heads to the back to unload a new crate of books, and for a while, the shop is quiet, except for the occasional hums of movement.
And every so often, I hear a soft thud or metallic clatter from the room behind the curtain at the end of the hallway.
The staff room, Dad called it earlier, where his colleague is apparently working on “something that probably shouldn’t be disturbed. ”
I’d asked who it was, and he just waved it off. “Someone helpful,” he’d said. “Bit of a recluse, but smart. Keeps to himself.”
Which, honestly, only made me more curious.
Now, I glance toward the sound again. There’s a low buzzing sound coming from behind the door, followed by a mechanical click, and then silence. My hands still on a stack of postcards from 1942. There’s a name scrawled across one in faded ink.
Love always, Annie.
I wonder where it ended up. If it ever even arrived.
When the noise finally stops, and it’s silent again, I catch Dad at the register. He pauses, drawn into something on the counter.
It’s a book. A small one, with a tattered cover and strange, curling font along the spine. He flips through it slowly, eyes narrowed in concentration.
Curious, I abandon the postcards and drift closer. “What’s that?” I ask, peering at the cover.
The Art of Optical Illusions.