Chapter Ten #2
“No it does not,” St. James said. “Those materials were earmarked for empath gloves. The move is being wildly praised by environmental
groups, but Stone Solutions is getting a lot of shit for not staying in its lane and keeping the materials for the gloves.
Xenophobia trumps helping the climate.”
Grayson was definitely going to hear about this from Marist. “We think the empaths are actually behind this?”
“What, you think they’re capable of murder but not sabotage?” St. James said dryly. “Liam and I are flying up to check on
the safe house tonight. I called to tell you to meet me for dinner first.”
“I don’t have time to eat.”
“Make time,” she shot back. “We need to talk.”
He could guess what she wanted to talk about: She was gonna want to build a case for Reece’s innocence. It wasn’t worth it.
Reece had finally crossed the line and become a murderer, just like Grayson had always known he would.
“You sure it’s worth your time to talk to me?” he said honestly. “With respect, ma’am, you know I’m not gonna be swayed by
emotion.”
“Oh no,” St. James said, deadpan. “And here I spent all my detective years building cases for the DA based on feelings. I don’t know anything about hard evidence; we took criminals to court to learn the magic of friendship.”
That cemented the suspicion that Reece had learned sarcasm from his big sister, even if Grayson had probably deserved it.
But still, this was her brother they were talking about. “It’s different when it’s family.”
“It is,” she acknowledged. “But you’re also being very stubborn about this.”
Obviously the Dead Man wasn’t being stubborn. But he bit those words back; he’d failed her when he let Reece become corrupted, just like he’d failed his parents and Alex
before. Least he could do now was listen to whatever she wanted to say.
“Fine,” he said instead. “Tell me where and when to meet you.”
Gretel hadn’t had much luck finding Alex’s empathy blog the day before. In fact, searching the internet for Alex and empaths had been surprisingly devoid of results; surely there was at least one empath out there with that name?
But Eyes on Empaths was the number one empathy awareness blog in the Pacific Northwest because Gretel didn’t quit. Sometimes people went by Alex in English when their heritage was something else—maybe Alex was actually Alejandro, or Alexandre, or Alessandro, or another
version of the name. Maybe he wrote his blog under a different name altogether, or under his last name, and she just needed
to find out what that was.
When they’d met, Alex had mentioned that he’d been at the AMI meeting that had been happening when Reece broke into Stone
Solutions. Gretel didn’t have a copy of the sign-in sheets, but her dad would. Beau Macy had a small army of AMI interns whose
job it was to save everything and make sure it was neatly categorized. They would have scanned the sheets and reviewed the
attendees, adding everyone to the mailing list and looking for potential new donors.
Gretel got to her parents’ home in the early evening, absently drinking her mom’s kombucha as she sat at her dad’s desk in his home office and booted up his laptop.
“Charles, this an absolute outrage!” Beau was in his bedroom, but his voice was raised enough to echo through the house. “I
can’t believe you’ve come out of retirement to try to talk me into this. Not for one instant will I stand for it!”
Gretel set her drink down as she put in her dad’s password. Charles was also a popular name, like Alex, but based on the context, she was pretty sure the Charles on the other side of the phone was Charles Stone—and he’d royally
pissed off her dad.
She unlocked the laptop screen. Almost immediately, an advertisement for Stone Solutions popped up on the open browser. She
irritably clicked it closed as Beau’s voice came through the walls again. “Oh, you’re bringing up my indiscretions now? So Lucien becomes a senator while my character is under assassination?”
Gretel winced. She was well aware neither of her parents was a model spouse, but she had no desire to be reminded of her dad’s
many affairs, just like she really didn’t want to write a blog post about Washington’s new senator when he’d had a public
fling with her mom.
She tried to tune out her dad’s call as she browsed his cloud drive. She opened the folder for November and scrolled through
files from the night of the AMI meeting. “Yes,” she said under her breath as she found a scan of the sign-in sheet for the press and opened it.
There’d been a decent amount of press at the meeting: a few reporters, a kid named Connor Kendrick from an unspecified high
school, and some names she recognized from social media. And then, near the top, an entry in neat handwriting:
A.G., Untitled Blog
Beau shouted from the bedroom again. “You’re lecturing me about share prices? When Stone Solutions pulled that little green stunt today and sent the stock careening? Stop changing
the subject, Charles, and listen to me: AMI will never put its support behind Lucien Braun as senator, you hear me? Never.”
Gretel pursed her lips, eyes on the letters A.G.
I haven’t been bold enough to name it, Alex had said of his blog.
“And speaking of share prices,” Beau said with an edge of real malice, “several of the other directors had questions about
that October 8-K. Roger brought it up privately to me yesterday, actually used the word suspicious. But of course, I came to your and Cedrick’s defense. I said, ‘It’s nothing to worry about. There’s no one more trustworthy than the Stones.’
But perhaps I should call Roger next and tell him I was wrong?”
Gretel stilled. Beau’s conversation had just taken a very interesting turn.
There was a long moment of silence. Then her dad spoke again. “Well, I certainly am relieved to hear that.” Beau sounded very
smug. “I appreciate that you see things from my point of view now.” He paused for a moment. “Why yes, Adele and I are free
for dinner tonight. Generous of you to offer. And of course we can meet at AMI before; we’ll get that pesky press release
handled, and then we can all enjoy the evening and pretend this conversation never had to happen.”
Beau’s voice was growing quieter now, as he was apparently placated. Gretel mentally filed away the words she’d heard to look
into later and focused on her screen. “All right, then, A.G.,” she muttered as she cracked her knuckles. “Let’s find your blog.”
A few clicks in a search engine later, Gretel was looking at an unassuming blog that seemed to be mostly articles and a handful of pictures: never of A.G., but of landscapes and cities in the western US. She followed the link for an entry the same day as the November AMI meeting.
AMI likes to say that all monsters claim to be harmless and that’s how they lure you under the bed. Of course, AMI members
also think monsters only exist as foils to the heroes: that they are and have always been monsters, intrinsically evil, born
not made.
No one learned anything from Frankenstein.
Gretel leaned back in her chair. Her dad did say that when he was talking about empaths and their pacifism. And A.G. was also
right that her dad saw himself as the hero fighting the empaths. Did Gretel see herself that way too? She’d seen Reece Davies
bruised and bloody because he wasn’t willing to fight back; counting herself among those who beat up on pacifists incapable
of self-defense wasn’t a particularly pleasant thought.
She scrolled back up to the top and the more recent entries, until she came to one that made her pause.
Sugar and spice and everything vice; we keep telling you it’s what empaths are made of.
Maybe it’s time for more folks to learn it for themselves.
It was dated the same day Alex had sent her the picture of Officer Stensby and Keith Waller outside of Cedrick Stone’s office.
“And everything vice,” Gretel repeated out loud, frowning.
What the hell did that mean?
And who was we?