Home > My Fallen Saint (Fallen Saint #1)(8)

My Fallen Saint (Fallen Saint #1)(8)
Author: J. Kenner

“Oh! I missed this town. I’ve been the publicity director for the foundation since Mr. Saint launched it.”

I nod. Roger had scheduled the interview for me. Otherwise, I’m sure I would have recognized her name.

“Let me check with Mr. Saint’s assistant about rescheduling your interview for next week,” she says now. “I assume you’re staying in town for a while?”

“I am. And I’d also like to book some time in the research room. Maybe I could do both tomorrow?” One of the major assets of the Devlin Saint Foundation is its library of research material about all aspects of the causes it supports and the horrors it fights. I’m eager to look at documentation regarding the Nevada human trafficking ring that will be at the heart of my article.

“I’m afraid not. We have a gala tomorrow, so we’re closed to the public to prepare.” She tilts her head, studying me. “Officially, we’re out of tickets. But…” She trails off, then opens her leather folio. “Contraband,” she says, handing me one. “We hold a few back for VIPs.”

“Ooh. I’ll take it. So long as you won’t get in trouble.”

“Not a chance,” she says. “But even if I did, it would be worth it.” Then she winks. And try as I might, I don’t understand the joke.

 

 

If I hadn’t seen Tamra, I’d be in a crappy mood for having the interview canceled. But I not only scored a ticket to the gala—which is an event I can easily work into the article—but I also connected with a friend. Someone who, like Brandy, is one of the few good things I associate with my years in Laguna Cortez.

Besides, this way I have all day tomorrow to focus on Peter instead of being camped out in front of my laptop working on the Saint story. And I have the rest of this afternoon to enjoy the crisp fall air. Summers in California are delicious, but fall here has always been my favorite time of year. The town is a little sleepier, the sunsets are incredible, and there are fewer tourists walking the beaches.

In fact…

I pause in the process of heading back to the parking lot and Shelby, then turn to follow a stone path toward the rear of the building. Though I’ve never been to the foundation before, I’ve done my research, and I’m following a map in my mind, filling in the small details so that in the end, I’ll know this place as intimately as anyone who works here.

The back of the foundation faces the Pacific, and that wall is made entirely from folding panels of glass that open onto a huge, covered flagstone patio, the focal point of which is a stunning fire pit. Beyond the patio is a landscaped garden filled with walking paths that meander down toward the beach.

I cross the patio, clearing the south side of the building. To my left, I now have a straight-on view of the SeaSide Inn, the small hotel on the other side of PCH that has been a fixture of Laguna Cortez for as long as I can remember.

At one point, my uncle actually owned it, along with a few others around town. I even helped decorate the office, in so much as going to Home Depot and looking at paint chips counts as helping. Or decorating.

I turn the other direction so that I’m facing the ocean. The tidal pools are only a short walk away, and I take a step that direction, then stop. The tidal pools had been our place, mine and Alex’s, and I’d cherished that time among the clusters of porous gray rocks that rose out of the long, empty stretches of sand. It was the place he’d first kissed me. A place I always felt safe.

More, it’s a place I haven’t been back to since he left.

I’m not sure if it’s in defiance of or protection for those memories, but I can’t bring myself to go back now. Instead, I turn once again toward the highway and start walking forward, the south wall of the foundation on my left.

From this perspective, I can see the fourth floor balcony, and I know from the article I read about the building’s architecture that I’m looking at Saint’s private office. Not that I can see much. From where I’m standing, my view is of the underside, a hint of the balcony’s glass barrier, and only the tiniest glimpse of the glass door leading inside. Even so, I pause for a moment, imagining that Saint’s standing at his window, and that he’s watching me, too.

I frown, wondering what came up that forced him to postpone our interview. Did he leave town? Or is he right now in his office? Hell, maybe he really is at his window looking down at me.

There’s no reason he would be, of course, and so I continue walking the length of the building so I can circle around and get back to Shelby.

But with each step, that tingling sensation becomes stronger, the uncanny sense of being watched. It’s not something I can ignore. Hell, I was raised by a cop and was on the job for two years myself before going back to school.

Mid-stride and without warning, I turn and look behind me. At the ocean. The path to the tidal pool. And the balcony off of Devlin Saint’s office.

That’s where he’s standing.

A man lost in the shadows cast by the building that shelters him.

It has to be Saint.

And he’s watching me.

 

 

Chapter Six

 

 

“You’re here!”

I hear Brandy’s squeal at the same time I see her running down the sidewalk, her pink-tipped blond hair flying as she launches herself at me. Six feet tall and curvy, she has almost seven inches on me, and it’s a wonder we don’t topple over.

“You bitch!” Brandy’s musical voice is laced with humor, plus a hint of genuine irritation. “You were supposed to be at my place yesterday. We were going to drink and gossip and you were supposed to tell me all about your assignment, and then we were going to have a run on the beach this morning before you did the whole reporter thing.”

“That’s completely untrue,” I protest as I extricate myself, then tug her toward the exterior wall of The Cask & Barrel so that we’re not blocking the sidewalk from customers trying to get inside. “Never in a million years would I agree to go running.” Brandy knows this. As far as I’m concerned, running constitutes one of the primary torments of hell.

“Okay, fine. You were going to play catch with Jake while I did the running.” She leans against the stone and wood facade, her arms crossed over her chest.

“Poor Jake.” Jake is Brandy’s ancient lab-mixed-with-mutt who is still convinced he’s a puppy. I was there the day she brought him home from the shelter, and I definitely count Jake among the few friends that I truly missed after leaving town. “Does he hate me?”

“Not as much as I do,” she tells me. “Come on, Ellie. Where the hell were you? First you tell me you’re coming yesterday, then all I get is a text this morning saying you’ll ping me when you’re free.”

“I did ping you when I was free. And I called yesterday. I left you a message that I was staying overnight with friends in LA.”

“Message, my ass. You didn’t leave me a message.” She grabs her phone from her waxed canvas bag, then taps the screen. “Not a single voice mail, and—”

“Your machine, Brandy. The one you insisted on getting at the house so that you could be—what did you say?—less tethered to your cell phone?”

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