Chapter 65 Chicago, 1927—Rick #5
Rick preferred to leave through the front door rather than return to the sitting room. It was easier to cover Remy’s back than try to protect his heart. “My friend Tavis Stuart is coming over.”
“Is he coming with Remy next year?”
Rick shook his head. “No.”
Skye reached for a shawl slung over the back of a chair and wrapped it around herself.
Then she stood before her mother’s portrait, tracing the frame with trembling fingers.
“Papa won’t go with you even if I could.
He tries to act brave around me, but Mama’s death has broken him. I think he might even welcome death.”
Her words were a knife to Rick’s heart. He almost went to her, but it would be so easy for Skye to cling to him in this uncertain time, and he couldn’t be that person for her.
A knock at the door startled him. “That should be Tavis,” he said. “I’ll get it—your butler’s busy.”
Rick returned to the foyer and opened the door.
Tavis did a quick head-to-toe scan of Rick. “You’re not bleeding.”
“Just my heart. Come in. Skye’s back here.”
Tavis stepped inside, lowering his voice. “How much of the story does she know?”
“Everything except what happens on Remy’s trip,” Rick said on a sigh.
“She knows why she can’t leave now?”
“She understands the words, not the logic.”
“And Alistair?”
“Uncertain,” Rick said. “Skye doesn’t think he’ll go anywhere.”
“Even if—?”
“Even if,” Rick finished before leading Tavis to the sitting room. “Skye, this is Tavis Stuart.”
She pointed at him, her eyes narrowing. “I’ve seen you before.”
Tavis grinned, easy and disarming. “Aha—yesterday. Your fancy LaSalle cruised past my Chevrolet.”
She shook her head and pulled her shawl tighter around her shoulders. “No. It was years ago.”
“Where?” He tipped his head, the grin fading into curiosity. “I’ve traveled a lot, but this is my first trip to America in the 1920s. I’d remember you.”
Skye frowned. “I have a good memory,” she said slowly. “I know I saw a man who looked exactly like you.”
Tavis crossed to the chessboard and brushed a finger over the fallen king. “Whoever played this could’ve won in two moves.” He glanced back at her. “So—how old was my doppelg?nger?”
“Doppelg?nger?”
“A man who looks like me. How old was he?”
She arched a brow. “How old are you?”
“Thirty-three.”
“It was hard to tell—no gray, no wrinkles—but the same shocking blue eyes.” Her gaze held his. “That’s why I noticed.”
Tavis stepped closer. She didn’t move. “It could’ve been my father.”
She almost smiled. “So, you and your father are the same age? How’d that work?”
“Time traveling can be a conundrum.” Tavis chuckled softly. “A difficult problem with no simple solution,” he said. “Though it once meant a riddle—usually with a pun for the answer.”
Skye didn’t hesitate. Her eyes lit, mischief sparking like a match. “One sells watches and the other watches cells.”
Rick nearly laughed before catching himself, lips pressed together as he shook his head. Point to Skye.
“What’s another?” Tavis asked.
“What did the fish say when it swam into a wall?”
He considered it. “Dam.”
Skye grinned. “First person ever to get it.” Then, just as smoothly, her expression shifted, the humor giving way to something more intent. “Anyway. Your mysterious father. Why was he here?”
The air changed.
Tavis lifted one brow, studying her with new attention. “Did you speak with him?”
“I did.” Her voice softened, thoughtful now. “He asked what qualities my perfect mate would have.”
Tavis’s gaze sharpened. “And?”
“That he loves music,” she said simply, then added with a shrug that carried surprising vulnerability, “and me—despite my faults.” She paused, searching his face. “Was your father looking for someone special?”
Something flickered in Tavis’s eyes—recognition, maybe resignation. “He’s already found… one.”
Skye frowned. “Then why was he here?”
“No idea.” He glanced toward Rick, as if hoping for an answer he already knew wouldn’t come. “Anything to add?”
Rick cleared his throat. “Everything about Erik—”
“Stuart!” Skye cut in sharply, eyes widening. “His name was Erik Stuart.” She stared at Tavis, disbelief rippling across her face.
Tavis nodded slowly, as though each dip of his chin carried its own weight. “Did he ask about your parents?”
“No,” she said, brows knitting together. “But he seemed to know them.” She hesitated, unsettled. “I don’t know how I knew that—but I did.”
“Did he scare you?” Tavis asked quietly.
She shook her head. “No. He was handsome. Charming. Even his size wasn’t threatening.” Her voice grew more measured, analytical. “He was curious, not cruel. He had the goods—if you know what I mean.”
Tavis blinked. “I’m not sure I do.”
She waved a hand, searching for the right phrasing.
“He had substance. Ability. The kind of presence that suggests success is inevitable.” Her mouth tightened.
“If I’d talked with him another ten minutes, I might have fallen under his spell.
” Then she added, decisively, “But he wasn’t interested in me. Only curious.”
A chill crept up Rick’s spine. The thought struck him that Erik might have been assessing Skye, not as herself, but as a mother for another child. The idea made his stomach turn, and he shoved it away before it could root itself.
“Did Rick explain why we’re here?” Tavis asked.
“To save my father,” she said crisply. “But if he leaves with you, the Illuminati won’t believe he’s dead, and they’ll punish me. And apparently, I can’t go to the future because I’m already there. None of which makes sense.”
“What about rescuing them from New York?” Tavis asked Rick.
“Alistair said this life—flawed as it is—was better than what he left behind,” Rick answered. “He doesn’t want to go back.”
“And I don’t want to be erased,” Skye said. “Even if I might be born later. That’s another conundrum, isn’t it?”
“It is,” Tavis said. “So, what’s the plan?”
“Alistair won’t decide anything until after the funeral,” Rick said. “He promised his answer then.”
Tavis looked to Skye. “And you? How do you feel?”
“Rick mentioned Remy was coming in the spring, and that I’ll go to the future with him. But how will I recognize him?”
“He’ll recognize you.” Tavis scrolled through the pictures on his phone and turned the device toward her. “This is Remy Benoit.”
Her eyebrows arched. “Remy’s very handsome. Is he French?”
“Cajun—from South Louisiana. One of the best drummers you’ll ever hear.”
That drew a genuine smile. “What’s he like?”
Tavis grinned. “Irreverent. Moody. Cusses too much.”
She surprised them both with a laugh. “Remy sounds like every musician I know. Am I going to fall in love with him?”
“When the time comes, you’ll know,” Tavis said.
Rick stood. “You’re exhausted. We should go. If you need anything, we’re just across the street.”
“Where?”
“The Todds’ house while they’re in Washington. We’re renting it for six months, though we won’t need it that long.”
Tavis bent and kissed her cheek lightly. “Good night, Skye.”
“Wait.” She turned and led them toward her father’s office. She pushed aside the portrait of her mother, exposed the wall safe, and spun the dial with practiced fingers. A moment later, she pulled out a thick file folder and handed it to Rick.
He thumbed through it—columns of type, names, bank accounts. “This will help,” he said, then brushed an equally gentle kiss against Skye’s cheek. “We’ll see you tomorrow.”
Outside, the night felt close and heavy. They waited on the stoop until their eyes adjusted, scanning both directions down the quiet street.
“Looks clear,” Tavis said. As they crossed the road, he added, “I hope to hell we didn’t blow this—telling her that much. Showing her Remy’s picture was stupid.”
Rick shook his head. “The brooches don’t come with a rule book.”
Rick unlocked the front door of the rented house and stepped inside. Clay was already pacing, boots scuffing the rug in tight, restless arcs.
“What took you so long?”
“I’ve got the whole thing on tape,” Rick said. He crossed to the table, dropped the folder with a flat thud, and pulled out his phone. “Spare me your interrogation.”
Clay stopped pacing. “What’s in the file?”
“Names. Addresses. Accounts.”
Clay flipped it open, scanning fast. “The Illuminati file Skye mentioned?”
“Looks like it,” Tavis said from the doorway. “Label’s gone, but the content fits.”
Clay’s jaw tightened. “How did you get it?”
“Alistair told Skye to fetch it.”
Clay frowned, pages whispering under his fingers. “Then how’d she see the label if it isn’t there? And how’d she open the safe if her father changed the combination before her mother died?”
Tavis lifted one shoulder. “We watched her do it.”
“She knew the code,” Rick added.
“In her version of events,” Clay said slowly, tapping the file with one finger, “she said she learned it later.
“Maybe memory shifted. Maybe stress warped the order,” Tavis said.
“Skye never forgets lyrics or notes,” Clay said, darker now.
“Then call it misremembering,” Rick said. “Because the alternative’s worse.”
Clay looked up. “What alternative?”
“That she knew what her father was doing—and helped him.” Rick’s mouth tightened. “If Sheena was too sick to keep the ledgers straight, maybe Skye took over.”
Tavis blew out a breath through his nose. “And if Alistair lied when he said he refused Bowes’s offer…”
“Then they’re both tied to the Illuminati.”
Clay closed the folder and slid it into Rick’s duffel. “Enough. We’ll dissect it at home. I don’t want this poisoning Remy’s mission.”
Rick nodded, though unease gnawed at him.
Clay picked up Rick’s phone. “You recorded the whole conversation?”
“Everything,” Rick said. “Figured you’d interrogate me line by line.”
While Clay and Tavis leaned in to listen, Rick uncapped his flask, poured himself a slug, then dropped onto the couch and stretched his legs out, eyes on the ceiling.
“Wait—stop,” Clay said suddenly.
Rick straightened.
The audio crackled.
What was the gift, Papa? I called it a jasper brooch. Your mother called it chalcedony…
Clay froze, color draining from his face.
Tavis thumped him between the shoulder blades. “Out with it.”
“I asked Erik what happened to Violet’s chalcedony brooch,” Clay said slowly. “He claimed only Violet ever handled it—and that it vanished. The night Violet showed up at Skye’s house, she told Skye she’d grown up with Sheena. Said they were friends.” He shook his head. “We never believed her.”
Rick leaned forward. “You think Violet gave the brooch to Sheena?”
Clay hesitated. “Violet lies like she breathes. But it fits.” He restarted the recording, let it run to the end, then shut it off. “We should check out of the hotel and stay here. Alistair might talk again.”
“Rick, you stay,” Tavis said. “They trust you.”
Rick grimaced. “Skye’s vulnerable. I don’t want to be alone with her.”
“What—afraid she’ll hit on you?” Tavis said lightly.
“Afraid she’ll lean on me,” Rick said. “And I won’t get between her and Remy.”
“Fair.” Tavis nodded. “I’ll stay. You two pack up.”
Rick hesitated, Bowes’s simmering rage flashing back at him. “He knows we’re in the city. If he tries to reclaim that money, he’ll break into the suite. Find the weapons. The dive gear. The electronics.” He met Clay’s eyes. “That can’t happen.”
“Then we fetch them,” Tavis said. “No one comes in here except Alistair or Skye. If Bowes’s men show, take a lateral trip immediately. Don’t play hero.”
Tavis paused. “What do I tell Alistair if he comes?”
“Focus on Skye,” Rick said. “Tell him she’ll have a good life. A husband who adores her. Tell him she’ll be a star. And whatever choice he makes—we accept it.”
They moved for the door. Rick stopped on the threshold, instincts flaring. “Scratch that plan. We go now, grab the gear, bring it back. I’m not parading through the lobby with an arsenal.”
Tavis nodded, ran a quick press-check on his Glock. “You armed?”
Rick gave him a look. “Always.”
Clay arched a brow. “Carrying concealed weapons is illegal in Chicago.”
Tavis snorted. “Gangsters never got that memo.”
Rick flipped open his brooch, the gemstone catching the lamplight. “Focus on the hotel suite,” he said, pressing a finger to the inscription.
The room blurred. Sound folded inward. Fog poured up from nowhere—and swallowed the three of them whole.