4. Harper
FOUR
HARPER
With my ear against the bedroom door, I listened for Wyatt. The front door slammed shut, and I raced to the window, peering through the glass windowpane as the black Range Rover slipped through the front gate and disappeared down the street.
I knew Wyatt wanted me to stay inside where I would be safe from the unknown threats lurking around Seattle. But if the people I loved were in danger, I couldn’t just sit around, twiddling my thumbs, doing nothing.
Picking up my phone, I dialled the number I knew by heart. It had been a week since I’d last seen Mom, and I was getting anxious. But the same automated message played.
“We are currently experiencing a norovirus outbreak and remain closed to visitors. Please try again—”
I pressed ‘end’ harder than necessary, bile rising in my stomach. Onto plan B.
Next to the row of business suits, my meager wardrobe looked out of place in Wyatt’s walk-in closet. I grabbed the first sweater I could find, a black hoodie, and paired it with black yoga pants, then pulled my hair into a black baseball cap. Spy chic.
I tip-toed from the bedroom and paused at the top of the staircase. Two large, beefy men were guarding the front door. With their thick arms crossed against their chests, and their broad shoulders stretching the fabric of their shirts, they looked more like prison guards than staff.
The taller of the two men reached into his flannel jacket and pressed a phone to his ear, mumbling something into it. He nudged the other guy, and the two of them disappeared from their post.
Seizing the opportunity, I raced down the stairs and wrapped my hand around the doorknob.
“Where do you think you’re going?”
I froze. Tank was seated in one of the wingback chairs in the living room, giving him a perfect view of the front door.
My eyes narrowed. “What does it matter?”
“It matters to Wyatt.” He crossed his arms and straightened.
“I’m allowed to leave,” I scowled. “I’m not a prisoner. You can’t keep me here.”
“No. I can’t.” The side of his mouth curved into a smile. “But they can.”
I followed his eyes. The two guards stood just outside the kitchen in the hallway. The taller one cleared his throat, a scowl on his face. He slid his phone back into the pocket of his jackets and patted it. “Sorry, ma’am. But we have orders not to let you leave. For any reason.”
“For fuck’s sake,” I muttered, taking a deep breath. “And I’m not a ma’am.”
The other guard shuffled on his feet. He whispered something to the first guard, then cleared his throat. “We, uh, have direct orders from Mr. Westwood himself.”
I released my grip on the doorknob and threw my hands in the air. “Fine,” I muttered, exasperated.
I turned toward the living room where Tank sat in silence, his cold, calculating eyes locked on mine. “You win this round,” I grumbled.
As I sulked toward the kitchen, I had to pass the two guards. They stared right through me, refusing to make eye contact.
The kitchen sparkled. The old housekeeper was busy scrubbing the marble counters but paused as I came into the room. “Miss Harper. Good morning.” She spoke gently, and some of my anger at Tank and the guards began to thaw.
I perched on the tall velvet bar stool and rested my elbows on the counter. “It’s Gloria, right?”
She beamed. “Yes, miss. Can I get you something to eat?” She gestured to a glass stand filled with muffins and pastries. “Perhaps a blueberry muffin?”
They looked delicious, but my stomach was in knots. “No, thank you.” I glanced out the window. “I think I might go for a walk.”
Her eyes clouded with concern. “I’m not sure…” She glanced in the direction of the front door.
“Just in the backyard. I know I’m not supposed to leave,” I huffed.
She exhaled nervously, and I wondered how much she knew about Wyatt and his crew. Could Gloria be a good source of information? Or even better, an ally? I could use one in a house where everyone hated me.
“Actually, a muffin sounds good, Gloria. Thanks.”
She smiled, and it carried through to her eyes. “Wonderful. Not to toot my own horn, but I’ve been told I make the best muffins in Seattle.” She lifted the glass and scooped out a plump muffin. “Perhaps warmed up with some butter?”
My mouth salivated. “That sounds good. Thanks.” I traced my finger over the smooth marble countertop. “How long have you worked for Wyatt?”
“I stopped counting,” she smiled. “I’ve known Mr. Westwood since I was a wee child.” She placed the muffin on a small dessert plate and cut it in half, then slathered it with butter. “My mother worked for Mr. Westwood and his family, and when she retired, I took over.”
“You grew up together?” My eyes scanned her face, wrinkled with age.
Gloria bowed her head. “Forgive me. It’s not my place to discuss Mr. Westwood.” Her hands shook as she opened the microwave door.
I didn’t want to cause any trouble for Wyatt’s staff, but my curiosity was piqued. “How old are you, Gloria?”
The microwave beeped at the same time as she whispered, “Seventy-two, miss.”
My jaw dropped. Had I heard her correctly?
Gloria set the warmed muffin in front of me. “If you’ll excuse me...” She wiped her hands on her lilac apron before scurrying away.
“Wait,” I called out. But the pantry door swung shut behind her.
I stared at the muffin on my plate, my appetite suddenly gone.
“Unlike wolves, blueberries don’t bite.” My eyes darted toward the intrusion. Only this time, it was Fiona’s kind eyes staring back at me. My shoulders relaxed and I let out the breath I didn’t realize I’d been holding.
“That’s not the reaction I was expecting for my lame joke,” she laughed.
“Sorry. Tank caught me trying to leave the house a few minutes ago.”
Her brown eyes softened. “Tank is never a good way to start the day.”
“No.” I shook my head and poked at the muffin with my pointer finger. “I feel trapped here,” I whispered.
Her eyes darted around the kitchen and behind her. “Oh, fuck it. It’s only Tank here, and I don’t care what he thinks.” She settled onto the barstool next to me. “I’m not supposed to be talking to you,” she admitted, flicking her ponytail over her shoulder. "But to hell with rules.”
She placed her hand over mine, and the warmth surprised me – both the heat and her kindness. “What’s going on?” she asked gently.
“Everything is so complicated right now,” I sighed. “Where do I even begin?”
Her head tilted. “Start here.” She smiled and lifted her hand off mine, nudging the plate closer to me. “Gloria bakes the best muffins.”
She crossed her arms when I didn’t reach for the baked treat. “Harper. You need to eat. You haven’t eaten anything since lunch yesterday.”
“Are you keeping tabs on me again?” I stared at the plate, unwilling to meet her eyes.
“We all are. Listen, I know you feel like a prisoner, but if your dad is right about you being in danger, then the mansion is the safest place to be right now.”
My eyes quickly lifted to meet her gaze. “You know, you’re the first person to say the word ‘dad’. Thank you.” I gave a tiny smile, and as a show of gratitude, pinched off a small piece of muffin, shoving it into my mouth like a robot. The sweetness of the blueberries hit at once.
“Oh wow,” I exclaimed, shoveling more muffin into my mouth. “You weren’t lying,” I admitted with my mouth full.
“I told you,” she boasted, as I continued to shovel the muffin into my mouth, until only crumbs remained.
“That was honestly the best muffin I’ve ever had.” I rose from my stool with the intention of carrying my plate to the sink, but Fiona’s arm stopped me.
She shook her head. “We all have our responsibilities, and dishes are Gloria’s.”
“But…”
She shook her head again. “Gloria’s in charge of anything kitchen-related. Don’t worry. You’ll get used to it,” she promised.
I sat back down. “If you say so. Though…” I sighed. “If I can’t do dishes, what can I do?”
Her brow furrowed. “You’re a reporter, aren’t you? I’m sure you can find a way to be useful.” She got up from the stool and walked toward the sliding glass doors.
Fiona was right. I didn’t need to galivant around Seattle to be useful. If there was one thing I was good at, it was research. My investigative skills were proven. They had led me to this very kitchen, where I was sitting with a sasquatch, having discovered one of Washington’s oldest, best-kept secrets.
If these walls were going to be my prison, then I’d take down the Carders from within.
“Besides,” Fiona said, the glass door sliding open. “If nothing else, this guy will preoccupy you.”
A tornado of brown fur came flying into the kitchen. Brown Dog rested his head on my leg, my yoga pants growing soggy from drool.
Fiona gave a slight wave before disappearing into the backyard.
I patted Brown Dog on his head, a smile back on my face. “Looks like it’s you and me, buddy. Want to take down some bad guys?”
He barked once as if to agree.