Return (Matt Turner Series Book 3) (17 page)

Kind, mothering words came muffled through pillows, while cold, heartless words—her own voice, clear as day—sneered menace through her head.
No one has ever been so alone, and no one’s ever been so deserving.
What had she thought? Matthew was sitting around on her old doorstep for the past five years?
It should be a shallow grave for me.
Justifiable bitterness. Please, Matthew, set aside your own inconceivable problems, and help me undo my own stupid choices.
Still some meat on these bones when the dogs dig me up. There’s the love I’ve always craved. Yes, those dogs will absolutely adore me.

* * *

Light fingers stroked her hand. She lay in a bed—
her
bed. She knew the shape and texture of her pillow, the cool surface of her sheets, her comforter’s weight. How had she arrived in the suite, and in bed? What time was it? Who was touching her hand? Jivu?

She opened her eyes. They stung. She’d fallen asleep with her contacts in. Only the entryway’s table lamps were on, casting the room in a dim amber glow.

“There you are,” said a familiar voice in Swahili. But it wasn’t Jivu sitting on the bed beside her. It was Thabiti, and he continued caressing her hand.

“Thabiti,” she croaked, jerking her hand to her and recoiling away. “What are you-?”

“Shh, Tuni,” his deep voice rumbled—deeper than usual speaking quietly.

He’d never before called her by her first name. No one here would, and even Jivu used an assortment of pet names. It sounded odd hearing it aloud, like it belonged to someone else.

She continued scooting to the other side of the bed, dragging the covers with her. Someone had taken off her shoes, touched her feet, laid her down. What else had happened while she was out?

She spoke through her teeth, “Thabiti, you need to leave. Now.”

He ignored her command, instead studying his upturned hand on her sheet, grazing each fingertip with his thumb. He closed his eyes, inhaled a deep breath. “I’ve worked for Mr. Absko a very long time. Long before you came.”

“Thabiti, I’d love to hear your history some time, truly. We’ve never had more than a few words in all these years. I’m sorry for that. But you being here, in this room, just the two of us, you
know
it’s entirely improper. Listen to me now …” She punched each word, “You need to leave.”

“Don’t worry. There is no surveillance in here.” He looked at her straight on—also new. He’d only ever given her the side-eye, always respectfully focusing just a bit off her face. “Hear me a moment and then I will go.” He smiled bashfully, a goofy sort of grin splitting this face she’d thought incapable of expression. “It’s not so easy to say.”

Oh, God. Honestly?

“I think I understand, Thabiti. Now, please, for your own sake … If the President were to come in here … really, even ten minutes after you’ve gone, he’ll smell you.”

“He’s with everyone in the meeting room, barking about the Russians this, the Russians that. I don’t know more than the little pieces, but I think everything is falling apart for him.”

Tuni waved this off and tried to speak, but he cut her off.

“I’ve loved you since the day you arrived at the old house.”

Well, there it is. What’s he expect me to say now? Me, too?

“It’s uncomfortable for me,” he went on, his football player shoulders writhing inside his black sport coat.

“Yes, for me, too.”

“But all I’ve ever wanted was to be close to you. I wrote a poem…”

“Oh, you don’t-”

“Don’t worry, I didn’t bring it.” He chuckled, a low wheeze from deep within. “I won’t make you listen to that. But it tries to explain what I mean.” He twisted toward her, drawing a meaty leg onto the bed. Tuni already sat as far as she could without falling off the bed. “What I mean about only being close. See, I know I could never have someone like you. You are one in a billion—a queen, a …
goddess
. At first I thought this makes sense, this pair, you and Mr. Absko. Of course a destined king would have such a woman. But over time, I see that you are beyond even him. He does not deserve you. I know you know this. And I know he knows this. It’s why you can no longer go out in the world. He’s afraid he will lose you, because he knows he shouldn’t have you in the first place.”

Tuni only stared at his droopy, doleful eyes.

“I wanted to say all this … to tell you how I feel for you … before you go. It hurts me to know I’ll never see you again, even though my love for you makes conflict with this, wanting you to stay for myself. It’s selfish, and not true to my love.”

“What do you mean before I go? Where am I going? What have you heard? Is he sending me somewhere?”

Thabiti frowned and shook his head. “No, no. Your friend—his message.”

Shit.

“Friend? I don’t-”

“Shh-shh, it’s okay. You don’t have to worry about me. This is my point. It’s my love.” He grinned and shook out his hands. “It’s crazy how easy to say now!”

“Thabiti.”

“Yes, your friend. Your message got out. It was very smart, however you did this. Even I had no idea. But the message back, Ngina must have made a mistake, because Mr. Absko found out and got it. He had me bring Ngina to him, and he told her all the names of her family to start. She was crying already before he was done, and then he didn’t even tell her what he knew. He just said ‘Now you will tell me everything,’ and so she did. He gave her a new message, told her just what to say to you, and he burned the real message right there.”

“Do you know what it said?”

“That’s why I’m here, Tuni.”

It still didn’t sound right, her name. And he was talking to her like a lover. She raised her eyebrows, waiting.

“It said,” he switched to English, speaking with clumsy emphasis, “‘Opportunities turn more when you take them. I hope your birthday was good. Matt.’”

Good God! Matthew!

She found her hands stacked over her mouth as before, in the hall. She had no clue what it meant, but it seemed to be pleasant, and real, and confident, and
Matthew
. Unconsciously, she moved closer to Thabiti.

“Are you certain those are the precise words?” she asked. “Try not to think of the English words, if it’s difficult. Say it normally, as it is in your memory.”

He returned to Swahili. “Yes, good. ‘Opportunities multiply as they are seized. Hope you had a good birthday.’”

“Had? Your positive it was ‘had,’ past-tense? My birthday isn’t for another week.”

“Yes, it was past-tense. I guessed maybe he thought it would take longer for the message to reach you.”

“And the ring? It didn’t come back, then?”

“Ring?” He puckered, confused. “I don’t know about ring. Ngina made no mention-”

My poor Ngina, you held out despite … Thank heavens if it’s true!

“Not ring. I was thinking of something else. Okay,” she said, sliding to the foot of the bed and jumping out, sheets and blankets crumpling to the floor. “Now you really must go, come on.” She grabbed his arm and tried to pull him up. He acquiesced and rose, following her to the antechamber. “If he smells me on you or you in here, it’s simple enough. I fainted outside the nursery and you helped me here.”

“Yes, that is what happened. Ngina and Ms. Kim helped as well.”

Tuni’s mind was too busy to absorb much of anything. “Great, that’s brilliant. And thank you, Thabiti, I mean it. You have no idea how much this means to me.”

He tried to respond as she pushed him out the suite doors and shut them behind him. She marched back into the bedroom. The pungent bite of Thabiti’s signature sweat seemed to fill every corner. It wouldn’t be so prevalent if he’d only been in there a moment. She flipped on the ceiling fan.

Shite! The bed!

Some serious gymnastics must’ve taken place in that bed. Jivu would think she’d seduced Thabiti and had a go, all to spite him, or under some delusion that it’d be the final straw to let her and Alexander leave him.

She grabbed up the heap and dragged it across the bed, straightening the corners of each layer on Jivu’s side, but left her own side ruffled. She’d been sleeping, after all, and it wasn’t as though she’d ever be able to get it as perfect as the maids.

Next, the restroom. The air freshener from under the cabinet. She turned on the fan and filled the air inside the lavatory with the faux floral aroma. It would drift out to the main room enough to dampen Thabiti’s scent. Jivu would sense if she sprayed it directly in the bedroom, and therefore know it was to cover up the only other scent present. She waved the commode door a couple times, then closed it, leaving the fan on inside.

And now a shower.

She went to the closet and slipped out of her dress, flinging it toward the corner hamper, so it would land on the floor. Her underwear joined the dress, bra dangling halfway over the basket’s rim. Clearly, no attempt to hide her clothes here.

In the vast main bathroom, Tuni strode across the heated marble floor to the shower, turned the knobs outside the glass wall, and waited for the array of streams to warm up inside. She stepped in a moment later, instantly drenched in perfectly sweltering heat. This shower may be the one thing she’d miss about this bloody place. With soft water pouring from ten wall heads, and the bulbous rain drops from overhead, it was like being submerged in a stand-up bath.

Just one week until her birthday. One week until the freedom. Freedom from fear, freedom from—

“I heard of your incident today.” Jivu stood a few feet away, a dim ghostly form just beyond the wall of steam.

No, she wouldn’t miss the bloody shower. She wouldn’t miss anything at all about this place.

Island of Philippos, Greece – Present day

Lying atop the covers of his bed, fingers laced beneath his head, staring up at his suite’s textured ceiling, Matt seethed on Kaleb’s recklessness. Armed with the knowledge of what would soon come of that little show, he could be perfectly satisfied by what he knew of Kaleb’s eventual fate.

He closed his stinging eyes. Patra’s affection for the Prince was clouding Matt’s judgment, and he
wanted
to remain outraged. His secondhand knowledge of these people and events hadn’t prepared him for this firsthand experience.

Yesterday, Markus had shared a brief rundown of what he knew of the Tragedy of Alexandria. Unbeknownst to Matt, the bloody invasion had been referenced in a single surviving parchment, a document unknown to historians. While coy about his source, Markus relayed the details he’d received: the dethroning (and possible beheading) of Zenobia and her son, the Musaeum’s destruction, the burning of the Library, thousands dead—all due to some unspecified satire performed in Alexandria, the tale of which had reached Rome with surprising speed.

Prince Kaleb’s life and death had been effectively erased, his name nowhere to be found in the history books. Markus had searched all over, and contacted his experts. The same held true of Patra and Philip. Three individuals so deeply connected to the events, overshadowed and expunged by those who mattered to historians: Emperors.

Records weren’t even clear on the destruction of the Musaeum, whether it was a complete loss, if only the Library had been harmed, or perhaps the Serapeum, where many archived scrolls were stored.

Matt had now witnessed the fateful performance in person, and, like with all fateful imprints, he wished he could warn Patra that she was right to be concerned, and moreso than she knew. Kaleb’s execution was an abhorrent event, only exceeded by what they did to Philip. Of everyone concerned, Matt was only certain of Kaleb’s descendants’ fates. If they were in Alexandria at the time, they’d somehow made it out, had children of their own, and at least one of his grandchildren, Vabalathus, bore a daughter, Aviena, whom Matt well knew from her wealth of imprints on the third keystone—Matt’s keystone. But what of Philip’s little ones? What were their names? What was Philip’s wife’s name? Aviena didn’t know of any of them, let alone their fates. Patra would know. He’d dive in for this info once he had Patra’s keystone back in hand.

The noon sun shifted, casting only shade on Matt’s window, dimming the room and repainting the place in muted shades of blue. He wasn’t yet interested in lunch—his stomach still complaining about the heavy breakfast:
“American breakfast!”
the chef had declared as his staff arrayed the table with generous portions of only the finest ingredients for coronary heart disease.

Matt turned over to face the clock on the nightstand: 12:20.

Today was the day.

Would Markus simply bring Matt the package from Tuni as agreed, or would he have to ask for it? 12:21.

By now, Paul Kleindorf at DOJ had his ducks in a row—Matt didn’t need to check on that. No doubt, Iris had already checked and double-checked and triple-checked all the moving pieces. Her OCD wouldn’t have it any other way. 12:22.

And Joss … Matt hadn’t heard her door open or shut, and he couldn’t call her without arousing suspicion, so he hoped she was on top of her portion. Would Markus deny her? Possible, of course, but he doubted it. 12:23.

* * *

Now this is what I’m talking about,
Joss thought as she selected a sarong from her closet’s free selection and tied it around her waist, over the bikini bottom.

In her vast marble bathroom, she brushed her hair, reapplied her makeup, and gargled mouthwash. She’d probably taken the cloak and dagger nature of her mission a bit too seriously, making contrived
vixen
faces in the mirror, and testing which walks appeared most natural.

You’re an idiot
, she thought.
Practicing natural. Pffft.

Her request wouldn’t be odd in the slightest—she had to keep that in mind. On her way out to the hall, she glanced at the wall clock: 12:24.

Perfect.

Finally grasping the layout of the property, Joss made her way through the house to the arboreal tunnel leading to the staff quarters. As she rounded the corner to the front of the structure, Circe appeared ahead, expectant expression already set.

“Good afternoon, Ms. Leland,” she said, blocking the path.