Page 40 of Brutal
She homes in on the one constant.
The key.
Most people never notice it. Or if they do, they assume it’s decorative and move on.
She doesn’t touch it. But she comes close. Close enough to understand it matters.
A smile pulls at my mouth.
Damn. This woman makes me want to smile more than anyone I’ve ever met.
“Come with me,” I say.
I don’t wait to see if she will. I turn and walk out into the corridor, knowing she’ll follow. She can’t help herself. She wants something. An answer. I’m just not sure of the question yet. But I’m fairly certain it has to do with Victor Halstead.
A name I prefer to keep buried inside my head where no one touches it.
I move at an even pace. I don’t explain anything. I don’t point things out.
I let her see what she sees.
Behind me, her footsteps remain steady. No hesitation. No attempt to fill the silence with questions or polite conversation.
She’s observing.
I can feel it.
We pass the main hall and then the staircase. The railing is iron, worked into a pattern most people would call ornamental.
It isn’t.
I don’t look back.
I don’t need to.
I know the moment she sees it again.
The key.
It’s in the railing, in the negative space between lines. Subtle enough to be missed by anyone not looking.
She’s looking.
We continue down the corridor, past a series of closed doors. Rooms that serve purposes no guest has ever needed to understand. A library that holds more contracts than books. A dining room used for more meetings than meals.
This house was never meant to be warm. Even my mother—may she rest in peace—couldn’t add warmth. And she tried. She tried so hard.
I slow near the far end of the hall, where a section of stone breaks the continuity of the wall. The carving there is older. Less precise.
I turn.
She’s a few steps behind me, eyes still moving, still taking everything in. She shifts her attention to the stone.
“It’s everywhere,” she says.
“Yes.”
She steps closer to the wall. “The same symbol.”
