Chapter 18
CHAPTER
EIGHTEEN
The walk was more of a hike, and by the two-mile mark, Jack declared himself starving.
Halfway up the hill, surrounded by deep forest, stomach gurgling, he began to wonder if he’d made a mistake.
The road wound behind him, twisting like a knot of intestines.
Through the trees, he could barely make out the pale forms of lavish houses and their long, steep driveways.
An engine roared in the distance. Jack fought the urge to throw himself into the bushes.
He’d passed two other houses so far, both relatively modest. Even if 1380 Castle Drive belonged to someone in the mob, it wasn’t fair to assume that every other house on the cliff did, too. Or was it?
Maybe he should’ve asked more questions. Since the mob house was clearly a topic of interest, he might’ve even gotten answers.
The engine grew louder, but Jack couldn’t silence the echo of Boris’s warning. He dove into the trees just as a dented maroon sedan rounded the corner and sped off into the distance.
“Fuck,” he whispered.
The breeze turned cold.
He’d just made it back to the road when he heard it again: the rumble of an approaching engine.
He ducked behind a thick oak and waited. The car sped past in the opposite direction, taillights flickering.
Same car, thought Jack uneasily, noting the damage to the back wheel well. Was this just someone messing around? Or someone on patrol?
Afterward, he kept to the woods, staying just close enough to the road to follow it without trouble. At every fork, he emerged to check the street signs, searching for Castle Drive. He found Castle Circle and Castle Street, but Castle Drive evaded him.
Still, he was nowhere near the top of the hill. It made sense that Castle Drive would be the furthest from town.
Thirty minutes later, Jack cursed his poor navigational skills.
He was still lost, wishing for a map, a bottle of water, anything that might help.
At this rate, he’d have to cut through yards to find the castle.
But did he want to risk trespassing in a place like this?
In the city, he probably wouldn’t be shot, just yelled at.
Out here, in a place populated by mobsters? Who knew.
But he had to know more about the mysterious woman. Had to know why she called him on some days and not at all on others. If every day was more or less the same, then why didn’t she call consistently?
Jack found Castle Drive after two hours of staggering through the woods. He was tired, hungry, thirsty, and shivering. The sun had all but set behind the trees. Jack was guided only by the occasional flickering streetlamp, casting pools of peach-tinted light onto the asphalt.
Castle Drive was nondescript, just a long, winding road surrounded by forest so thick that he could not be certain what lay beyond. More houses? Cemeteries? An entire wood filled with shallow graves?
At long last, the castle itself came into view. The road changed from asphalt to cobblestone. As he rounded the bend, he found a gate, wrought iron and easily ten feet tall. Stone walls stood on either side, covered in creeping ivy.
1380 Castle Drive, proclaimed the bronze plaque.
Screwing up what was left of his courage, Jack pressed the call button.
At first, nothing happened. Somewhere far in the distance, an owl hooted. Crickets chirped. Jack glanced around, feeling foolish. What if someone was watching? Would they expect him?
Then came a loud beep, and the gate creaked open. Jack took a deep breath and darted through, half-afraid that it might slam shut on him.
“Fuck,” he mumbled, hoping that leaving would be just as easy. Already, he regretted this.
Where was the security? Shouldn’t there be security?
This house belonged to the mafia, right?
Jack’s stomach churned as he imagined snipers on rooftops or hidden between the trees.
Did they know he’d been invited? If they didn’t, would they shoot him once, or riddle him so full of holes that his own mother wouldn’t recognize him?
Would they take him hostage in the basement and torture him?
Would they believe him if he said he was just really, really lost?
Probably not, Jack admitted to himself. Maybe if he acted like he belonged here, no one would ask questions.
In his ill-fitting suit, satchel at his side, he was going to attract attention.
But Jack had to explore every possible avenue. If the body wasn’t the key to the time loop, then maybe whatever awaited him here was.
So, he kept walking. All the way up the long drive, past the perfectly manicured rose bushes and the fountain in the courtyard, hands deep in his pockets, breath coming in short bursts.
Anxiety crept up his spine like a centipede, wriggling and itching.
He fought the urge to shake it off like a wet dog.
A gigantic stone porch awaited him. Up close, Jack realized it was made of smooth river rock and pale brick, not the old, craggy stones he associated with castles and old fireplaces.
Its marble pillars were thick as tree trunks, surprisingly soft to the touch, like something he imagined one might find in an ancient Greek ruin.
The door swung open.
“Get inside,” hissed a voice, feminine and angry. “Why’d you use the front door? Don’t you have any sense?”
A light clicked on. Jack glimpsed a woman, short and slender, with a great puff of permed, caramel-colored hair. “I guess not,” he said, stepping inside.
“I don’t have time for this,” she growled, slamming the door behind her. “Follow me.”
In the dim light, Jack could just make out her olive-toned skin, silk top, lavender skirt, matching high heels. He followed her somewhat aimlessly, irrationally concerned that she hadn’t locked the door after him.
Or was he supposed to do that? With a flood of guilt, he realized he had no idea how a guest should act in a home like this.
He belonged here no more than a flea-bitten street mongrel.
The seashell-pink wallpaper in the entryway was fucking gilded.
The sconces on the wall cast the hallway in moody, dramatic lighting.
An expensive-looking vase held fragrant red roses, sitting atop a side table that wouldn’t have looked out of place in a high-end furniture store—the kind Jack wouldn’t even bother to enter.
Even the umbrellas in the stand were sophisticated and sleek.
An emerald green runner shielded white marble floors from whatever dirt he might track inside, stretching from the doormat to the end of the long hallway.
The woman paused outside a mahogany door and whirled to face him.
Light from the wall sconces revealed the planes of her face—a delicately arched nose, plucked eyebrows, full lips, dark eyes framed by thick lashes.
“Don’t try anything,” she warned, assessing him carefully, as if half-expecting him to whip out a gun.
“I won’t,” Jack assured her, gesturing to himself. As if he could afford a gun, let alone use one with ease.
“Good,” said the woman. Her voice was nasally, maybe a little hoarse. “You don’t look like you’d be very successful, anyway. What’s your name? I’m tired of asking for you by description.”
Should he lie? Possibly, but his mouth had already betrayed him. “Uh, Jack. Who are you?”
“You can call me Claudia,” said the woman, pushing the door open. Jack followed her into a room with floor to ceiling bookcases, a blood-red rug, a desk the size of a twin bed, and a worn leather chair studded with bronze grommets.
The shelves behind the desk held carved statues—a horse, a dragon, a Corvette. A silver-inlaid fountain pen lay atop a sleek legal pad. Its cap bore some sort of white snowflake. Claudia followed his gaze and quickly shoved the pen into a drawer.
Jack held his hands open in front of him to show that he had no interest in stealing, but she had already moved on.
She dropped into the great leather chair and gestured to the cushioned chairs on the opposite side of the desk.
For the first time, he noticed the pendant at her throat, the studs glittering in her ears.
She was very shiny for someone who wanted to seem intimidating, Jack thought. But very scary. Appropriately, respectably scary. Unlike him, she probably did have a gun hidden somewhere on her.
He could admit that he was more than a little curious.
“So, uh, Claudia,” said Jack, sitting on the edge of the chair, afraid that he’d somehow scuff it and spend the rest of his life indebted to the mob. “Why am I here?”
She laced her fingers together and rested them beneath her chin. For a long time, she said nothing. Jack fought the urge to squirm, then eventually gave in. The tapping of his foot cracked the silence like shattered glass.
Claudia sat back, her gaze no less scrutinizing. “Tell me. What brings you to Hidden Cove?”
Be careful how you answer, said the little voice in the back of Jack’s head. How would Buck and Nora handle this?
He leaned back in his chair and crossed his ankle over his knee, hoping to exude anything other than anxiety. “Work,” he said, as casually as he could.
“And how long have you been here?”
“Overnight.”
“What sort of work do you do?”
Fear lanced through him like lightning. Shit. That was the problem. He was here for the factory audit. Did the mob own the factory? Were they afraid he was going to find something? Were they willing to kill to keep their secrets?
“Uh, I work for Grover, Rowell, and Thursday,” Jack admitted. Sweat prickled at the back of his neck. “I just got a promotion.”
“Uh-huh,” said Claudia, watching him with dark, fathomless eyes. Long, black lashes fluttered. “To what, exactly?”
“Uhhh,” said Jack, glancing from the door to the window. Which one would be easier to escape through?
The door, he decided. The window might be locked, but Claudia probably couldn’t chase him very far in those heels.
“What did they promote you to, Jack?” she demanded, all but glaring at him.