Page 100 of Please Open Me
“You sound mad,” I forced a swallow. “Why are you mad? Why is she there?”
The silence was thick with her glare. I didn’t wait for the answer. I promised I’d be there soon and hung up.
High or not, I needed to get to Portland.
Normally, the drive from Hartwood to Black Cove took about ninety minutes. An hour if you sped. Somehow, I made it in just under forty. Which was insane, not just because of the speed, but because I didn’t remember the drive at all. One blink, and I was pulling up to the million-dollar house Leona and Atticus had bought after her first kid was born.
In the moonlight, it looked exactly like the glossy magazine photos they’d fallen in love with, except Leona had swapped the tasteful gray siding for cobalt blue and added a persimmon door. She claimed dull houses looked dead. To me, it looked like a crayon box had exploded on what was once a beautiful home.
Still, between a lawyer and a psychologist, they had the kind of money where taste didn’t matter.
The porch light was off, but nearly every window on the first floor glowed gold against the dark lawn.
I killed the engine and climbed out, boots striking too loud against the concrete. Knocking would only wake the kids, so I went for the fake rock with the spare key. If they hadn’t lived in one of the safest neighborhoods in Portland, the place would’ve been robbed years ago.
The deadbolt clicked, and I pushed the door open slowly, holding my breath. For a second, I thought I’d slipped in unnoticed, until a voice stopped me cold.
“If I were you, I’d find a place to stay tonight. Give your sister time to calm down.”
Atticus leaned in the archway to the living room, arms folded, silver hair catching the light.
I huffed, bent to unlace my boots. “Would love to, but you’ve got my kids and my wife, and I kinda want them back.”
He didn’t move. “She started off pissed at your brother. Now she’s mad at you too. You know how she gets.”
My brow rose. “My brother. As in Sebastian?”
“Unless you’ve got another one I haven’t met.”
“What did Seb do?”
Atticus shrugged. “All I know is he and Mason fought. She didn’t feel the kids were safe. Called Leona crying. And ended up here.” He nodded toward Mason’s old bedroom. The one Leona had never changed, not even when Mason vanished to France for six years.
I tugged off my boots, sat back on the floor cross-legged. “Mason doesn’t think Sebastian, the guy who spends half his time building Legos with the kids, is safe to be around them?”
Another shrug. For a man who spent his life untangling human minds, he looked baffled by hers.
“Okay. How does that end with me being in trouble?”
He gave me the kind of look fathers reserve for disappointing sons. “You know what you did.”
“My dad checked out a decade ago, so if you could skip the cryptic bullshit, I’d appreciate it.”
“You don’t know?”
I shook my head.
He sighed, muttered something about me deserving to be yelled at, then let me pass. I didn’t bother asking again. Not worth it.
The door to Mason’s room was shut. I nudged it open with my foot, expecting her to be asleep in the narrow twin bed Leona thought would keep us out of trouble back then. But the bed held only Rosie, butt in the air, face mashed into the mattress.
Unsafe. My pulse spiked as I stumbled forward, arms out to scoop her up–
“Lucian Augustine Castillo, don’t you dare.”
Leona’s voice froze me. Full government name. Bad sign.
I turned. She was perched on a dining chair she'd dragged beside the bean bag Mason had always claimed was better than a bed. Curled into its violet fabric, bundled under weighted blankets, was my wife.
