“It’s nice to meet you,” Indira said over me. She had a lovely, low voice. “Do you have any dietary restrictions?”

  “No.”

  “What about preferences? Things you won’t eat?”

  “Uh, no?”

  She smiled. “Don’t worry; we aren’t too adventurous, and I’ll let you know if I’m planning something I think you might not like. I keep snacks in the refrigerator, so please help yourself. I do ask, however, that you not use the kitchen to cook. As I explain to all of Vivienne’s guests, this is my workspace, and I hope you’ll respect it the same way I respect your personal space.”

  There didn’t seem to be anything I could say to that except: “Of course.”

  “If you have any special requests,” Vivienne said, “Indira will be happy to accommodate you.”

  “Another thing I explain to all of Vivienne’s guests,” Indira said in that same, hello-we’re-friends-but-don’t-screw-around voice, “is that, although I live on the property, I am not an on-call employee. I have contracted hours when I work for Vivienne. The rest of the time is my own, so if you have a midnight craving, I suggest helping yourself to snacks and leftovers, or you’re always free to bike into town.” Another polite, no-nonsense smile. “I promise I won’t be offended if you choose to eat out, but I do like to know, if possible, so we can avoid food waste.”

  “Sure,” I said—because again, what else was I going to say? “Of course.” And then, because it felt like I had to say something, I asked, “Was that your son?”

  The sudden silence was suffocating. Vivienne turned her head slowly toward Indira, and one eyebrow came up.

  Indira’s expression was flat and unreadable.

  “I thought we talked about this,” Vivienne said.

  “We did,” Indira said.

  “I thought the issue was resolved.”

  “It is.”

  “Wonderful,” Vivienne said the way people say it when they mean a word you can’t print in the newspaper.

  Indira tried to keep up her end of the staring match. And then she turned and chopped an onion in half. One strong, swift schick of the knife. It sounded like the last thing Marie Antoinette ever heard.

  Maybe Vivienne saw something on my face because her expression relaxed, and she motioned for me to follow her. She said in a low voice, “I’m sorry. A bit of an ongoing disagreement. Indira can be a bit…stormy, but you wouldn’t believe what she can do in a kitchen.”

  Build a gingerbread house to lure children in, I thought as I followed Vivienne through another door. Roast them at 425 for about an hour, and the meat falls right off the bone.

  We passed through what must have been, in the olden days, the servants’ dining room. It was still set up with a table and chairs, gingham curtains in the windows. They looked out on the sea cliffs. The boy I’d seen in the kitchen had come this way, but I didn’t see him here. Vivienne pointed to a door and said, “That’s the rear entrance. There’s also a side entrance just around the stairs. The Blackwoods had strong opinions, like other wealthy people at the time, about servants not using the same spaces as decent people. The cellar’s down there—I don’t suppose you have a lot to store? We could make room.”

  “Not really,” I said. “But thank you.”

  “Then I’ll show you the billiards room and the den,” she said, pushing through another door, which carried us back into the main hall. We had made a full loop of the ground floor, I realized, and Fox now lay on the tile directly ahead of us, snoring lightly. Vivienne chuffed a laugh as she indicated another pair of pocket doors.

  Before I could open them, though, footsteps rang out in the vestibule, and a door closed a little too hard. Hasty steps moved toward us, and a moment later, a man entered the hall. He was white, with the comfortable padding of a man in middle-age, his receding hair clipped almost to the scalp. His suit looked like something out of a mortician’s supply catalogue. He started for the stairs, glanced at Fox, and continued—obviously unfazed, which really said something.

  “Mr. Huggins,” Vivienne said, “perfect timing. This is Dashiell—”

  “Dash is fine,” I said.

  “—and we’ve just about finished the tour. Why don’t you get set up in my study, and we’ll complete the necessary paperwork?” In an aside to me, Vivienne said with a smile, “Mr. Huggins is a fiend for forms.”

  Huggins stared at me, as though he weren’t really seeing me. Little beads of sweat dotted his forehead, I could now see, and he had an unhealthy cast to his complexion. “Vivienne, we need to talk.”

  Something changed in Vivienne’s face—I wanted to call it surprise, but it wasn’t quite that. Then it was gone. She squeezed my arm and said, “Dashiell, why don’t you bring in your luggage and make yourself at home? I’m going to have a quick chat with Mr. Huggins.”

  “Oh, right. Sure. I, uh—I didn’t know where to park, actually, so I left my car down on the road.”

  “Of course. Come right up the drive and follow it to the back. The coach house is technically the motor house, now, I suppose. You can let yourself in through the side and open the overhead door. We’ll find you one of those remote thingies. Oh, please don’t go poking around—Indira lives on the second floor, and she’s protective of her space.”

  Why wouldn’t she be, I thought. She’s got all those children she’s fattening up.

  “That was your car?” Huggins asked, dabbing at his forehead with a handkerchief. He finally seemed to have realized I was there. “Parked on the shoulder?”

  “The Jeep,” I said.

  “You’d better get down there. We’ve got an overzealous deputy on the local force, and he looked like he was about to have it towed away.”

  I looked at Vivienne with what I hoped was an apology, and then I ran.

  Acknowledgments

  My deepest thanks go out to the following people (in reverse alphabetical order):

  Wendy Wickett, for help with so many things, but most importantly, for three wonderful insights into these characters: Tean and Jem’s daughters; Emery beating himself up; and John-Henry reclaiming his power.

  Mark Wallace, for helping me find the soul of this book, for his wonderful insights into Colt and Emery and John, and his red pen edits to make it even better!

  Tray Stephenson, for catching my sentence fragments, for spotting my typos, and for his kind words about these guys, particularly Shaw!

  Nichole Reeder, for her help with missing letters and words, for help with my continuity errors (John’s phone!), and for asking that critical question about Cassidy.

  Pepe, for thinking of the Mosses and their church, for helping me clarify awkward sentences, and for the wonderful suggestion about Kitty/Cat (I can’t wait to find a place to use that).

  Cheryl Oakley, for asking about Cassidy’s past, for helping me fix the shootout at the trailer, and for catching so many continuity errors.

  Raj Mangat, for remembering the Christmas decorations, keeping track of Auggie’s search history, and the wonderful suggestion about Colt making the call (even though that didn’t end up making it into the story).

  Steve Leonard, for his feedback about Emery’s decision at the end, the inability of the other characters to read the room, and the parts of the story he enjoyed.

  Marie Lenglet, for helping me make this book better in so many ways—to name only a few, by helping solidify Vermilya as the “big bad,” amping up the pressure with the Wahredua PD, and suggesting the threat of Child Services intervening. (And an extra thanks for the final read-through corrections!)

  Austin Gwin, for his thoughtful comments about the final reveal, about the threat posed to John and Emery’s relationship, and most of all for helping me think more carefully about Emery in the final chapter.

  Fritz, for asking about the timeline in the final chapters, for (among other things), help with the Ford Airstream, and for one of my favorite edits of all time (like taking sixth-grade health all over again).

  Savannah Cordle, for asking very important questions about Jace’s motivation in being the witness, for her insight into the progression of the final act, and all her reactions to the story that reminded me there was some good stuff happening in here.

  A special thanks to Raye, Crystal, Alyssa, and Alicia for catching errors in the ARC.

  And finally, a tremendous thank you to everyone who supported the Iron on Iron Kickstarter (in no particular order): Tobi F., Hazel, Diane Crew, Rebecca Kopf, Cheryl, Gerie Jones, Roberta Vitale, Alyssa, Kristina L., Jamie B., Elanore, Piper, Nicoleta M., Chiara, Emma Macadie, Mimi Cirik, Russ Sadd, Nikki Simpson, David Bedwell, Ela @ TheQueerBookish, Connie Kendall, Darrel M Wood, Silvia P., Jason R., MtSnow, Bev Sutherland, Brittney Hooker, Donald Proffit, Courtney Bassett, Lloyd Dodd, Nancy L. Fulton, Urban Andenius Skeppstedt, Kerri Hinkel, Rochelle Selwyn, Jacs, ML Quackenbush, Emma de Boer, Julie Whitehead, Yaara Aloni, Åsa F, Dri Gomez, Andi Byassee, Ruth Johnson, Liz Kruse, Jolanta Benal, Mary Dolphin, LiLe Upp, Marti, Joseph D. Carriker, Jr., Susanne Werner, Laura Tobin, Olivia, Kelly Johnson, Nick Miano-Kegg, Amy Zontek-Carney, Dayle B., Babette B., Nakaji, Kristin Noone, EWC, Emery, Dan Leonard, Mich Cahl, Caroline Simon, Nica Flor, Yvonne Jones, Jessamyn Donovan, Devon Monk, Cristov Russell, Abraham Josep, Kurt Granzow, Francisca, Tracey L., J. Abrams, Amanda B., C. Peters, Emily Pfeifer, Christine Rost, Ravyn Bryce, Elizabeth R., L Tran, LenaBelle, Saranna Riley, Emily, Rhys Everly-Lawless, Addie M., Eirinelli, Julie Ashmead, Marcy Velte, DKauffman, Wardy, Maegan Richards, Nicolas Maurand-Garet, Sheila Vance, Jessicapybara, Cathy Lechien, Mandy A., Colette, Bob Turnure, Mark Wallace, Caroline Nelson, Carol Higgins, Maya Bretzius, Aude, Elizabeth Rasic, Robyn, Hank Edwards, Annery, Laurene, Murphy-Ann Craig, Ruth Cannon, Vinh Ho, Alan Weaver, Kylie, Raye, Michael of Deserts, Mody Bossy Canada, Debra Edwards, Juli Hincks, Chloe Smith, Tricia Bowden, Steve Leonard, Sandra Kirchner, Chloe T., Melissa Hensley, Megan Dansie, DK, Lisa Sullivan, Megan Tarbett, Kelly Rayson, Q, Kate Child, S.Y., Stacy Sirkel, Christina Lovette, Caroline Nelson, Jessica Wynne, Crystal Jackson-Kaloz, Caroline, Antara Chowdhury, Savannah Cordle, Molli B., Kat Shenton, Shannon, Alyssa Ma, Crystal, Laura Jordan, Deb Sutton, Miriam Brodbeck, Melissa Brus, Nichole Reeder, Ellen McManus, Connie Munoz, Meredith Sweeney, Cristina Nieves, Mitchel Walters, Bec Lasky, Kirby Yount, Carlene McLaughlin, Christine Fredrickson, Emily Dye, Kate Collopy, Dawn Cutler-Tran, Amanda K., Cyndi Reynolds, Marleen Martinez, Justin Trimboli, Jill Kirkland, Sierra Anaya, Debbie J., Sarah Sutton, KarenABQ, Carey Eldridge, Kevin Craig, Eri, Eli H, Aethena, Chris Hasala, Michael Carter, Ulrike Fischer, Zyn Marlin, Ida Sue Umphers, Tara Greene, Ron Trucks, and Randall Gilchrist.

  I may have missed a backer because of a miscommunication, an incomplete survey, or a mistake on my part – in that case, please accept my sincere apology (and let me know so I can correct it).

  Thank you again for making these books possible!

  About the Author

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  Gregory Ashe, The Evening Wolves

 

 

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