“I-I do?” The comment was so unexpected it brought tears to her eyes. She hadn’t met anyone who had known her family since the fire.
“You sure do. We were found the same year.”
If what Julie said was true, she would be close to fifty years old, which was hard to believe because she looked the same age as Vivienne.
“When she and I first met, we—”
“How about we save the stories for a time when Vivienne isn’t ready to collapse from exhaustion?” Deacon drawled, nudging Vivienne and Julie past an ornate couch toward an antique desk. The computer on top looked out of place next to the vintage lamp and the stack of old novels.
“Dash gets cranky when he’s kept waiting,” Julie said, swiping at her frizz and offering Vivienne a conspiratorial wink. “Which is ironic, because he is always late.” She tugged on one of the dimmed wall lights shaped like a candelabra, revealing a door in the paneled wall behind the desk.
“Why does she call you Dash?” Vivienne asked when Julie disappeared into the secret room. She wondered if the other lights around the hall opened up hidden doors as well.
“My full name is Deacon Ashford,” he said, his voice barely rising above the grandfather clock ticking beside them. “A friend back in London shortened it once and it stuck.”
“It’s much nicer to do this during daylight hours,” Julie muttered, emerging with an olive-green folder in her hand. “Are you listening, Dash?”
“We would’ve been here yesterday if she hadn’t been such a skeptic.”
“Good for you, Vivienne. Make him work for it. Those pretty green eyes of his usually get him whatever he wants, whenever he wants it.”
Although it sounded like Julie was teasing, it felt like there was a lot of truth in what she said.
“Don’t listen to her,” Deacon whispered, his warm breath tickling the shell of her ear. “She’s an old busybody who can’t seem to mind her own business.”
“What did you say?” Julie hissed.
Deacon straightened and gave her a sheepish smile. “Nothing, Julie. Do you have the paperwork ready?”
Julie muttered as she dragged papers from the folder and spread them across her desk. She explained each one before asking Vivienne for her signature. The documents seemed pretty straightforward; there was a lot of stuff regarding confidentiality and safety. Vivienne didn’t understand all of it, but there was no mention of human sacrifices or blood oaths, so she figured she was okay to go ahead and sign them.
She handed Deacon the pen so he could sign as a witness. Julie added her signature, pressed the sheets with a heavy wooden stamp from beside her computer, and filed the pages in the folder.
“We’re all set here,” Julie said, slipping the folder back into the secret room and closing the door. “Dash, you can head on home.”
Deacon picked up Vivienne’s bag from the checkerboard tiles. “I don’t mind showing Vivienne to her flat.”
“Yeah, that’s not happening.” Julie took the backpack and slung it over her shoulder. She linked her free arm with Vivienne’s and hauled her toward the hallway. Lights came on as they walked, revealing a line of mahogany doors on both sides and an arched window at the end.
Vivienne glanced back once, but Deacon was already gone.
Outside the last door, Julie came to an abrupt stop. “There’s someone who needs to speak with you before I bring you to your apartment,” she said, opening the door on the left and stepping aside.
Inside, a gentleman sat at a round table. His grey polo shirt matched the hair at his temples and his goatee. He motioned for Vivienne to enter and sit. His eyes, over the thick rims of his glasses, never left the papers scattered in front of him.
The deep green plaster walls were covered in mismatched frames, filled with black-and-white photos. She recognized Tower Bridge from one of the larger frames and wondered if the rest of the pictures were also from London.
Julie assured her it wouldn’t take long before making the introductions. The man’s name was Paul Mitter, and he was the head of External Affairs at Kensington. Whatever that meant.
Vivienne sat in the chair closest to the thick gold curtains and waited while Paul collected his pages into a pile. She hid a yawn inside the neck of her sweatshirt. God she was tired.
“I apologize for having to fit this in tonight,” he began, “but I will do my absolute best to keep this brief. One of my jobs is to vet new members before they arrive at Kensington. However, the presence of HOOK at the hospital tells me that your case requires a bit more investigation.” Paul pulled a yellow legal pad from a briefcase at his feet and clicked the top of his pen. “Are you ready to get started?”
Vivienne nodded.
“Did you make contact with anyone after you were admitted to the hospital?”
“Besides the doctors and nurses, you mean?”
“Anyone outside of the hospital staff,” he clarified.
“I texted Lyle a few times, but no one visited me except Lynn.”
Paul scribbled something on his legal pad. “That would be Lynn and Lyle Foley, correct?”
“Yes.”
“So, you’re telling me, in all that time, not one other person stopped by to see you?”
“That’s what I said.” Her hands balled into fists in her lap.
He made more illegible notations. “Did you recognize any of the agents from the hospital?”
“I couldn’t see them very well from the roof.”
It was clear from Paul’s pinched expression that he wasn’t pleased with her answers. “You have no clue how or when HOOK found out about you?”
“No clue,” she said, scratching her leg. “But they knew where I lived.”
Paul’s eyes met hers, and a glint of victory flashed across his stern features. “What do you mean?”
“Agents were at the house the day I left.” Her feet tapped against the floor.
“Did they say anything to you?”
“They didn’t know I was there. I had time to get out before they got to my room.”
He jotted another note. “That was Friday, correct?”
“Yes.”
“Were you followed to the bus stop?”
“No.”
“What happened to your—?”
“My face? I fell, okay?”
He rubbed his hand over his goatee and swore. “Is there anything you can remember that may help us uncover your connection to HOOK?”
“One of the guys was named Lawrence.”
Paul’s pen dropped to the floor. “Lawrence Hooke?”
“You know who he is?” She didn’t know why she asked. The answer was pretty obvious.
“Lawrence Hooke,” he repeated, removing his glasses and tossing them onto the table, “is the current CEO for HOOK, and he’s rarely seen outside of their facility in Virginia. You, my dear, are very, very lucky that you escaped.”
The next morning, Vivienne stretched her travel-weary muscles and rolled over in her new bed. The contents of her backpack sat in a messy lump on top of her desk, illuminated by the light in her private en-suite.
She stretched once more before climbing onto her knees and opening the blinds covering the window above her headboard.