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Preston tapped his ears. “Noise-canceling headset.”
We were standing on the other side of the living room now, nearest the glowing wood stove. Jax had been feeding it firewood for the past hour. It was still cherry red. The warmth was soothing.
“I guess you’re staying here tonight,” I said, in the form of a non-question.
Preston glanced at the snow-caked window, then back at Jax.
“Sure looks that way, yeah.”
There was a pregnant pause as we stared at each other for a long, silent moment. The fire crackled. Jax snorted.
“Do you have a spare air-mattress or—”
“Hey, you wanna see something weird?”
I asked the question at almost the same time he spoke. Preston tilted his head curiously.
“Really?”
“Yeah, really.”
He shrugged and grinned. “Is there a guy on Earth who would say no to something like that?”
~ 17 ~
PRESTON
It wasn’t a room, it was an outright museum. And not just any museum either, but one lovingly dedicated to every single one of my deepest, darkest, vices.
Or fantasies, depending upon how you looked at it.
“Harper!” I swore.
The room was light and dark, good and evil, Jedi and Sith. The shelves and built-ins were stocked with everything Star Wars. There were figures, vehicles, models and lightsabers. Movie posters lined every square inch of the walls, wherever they weren’t covered with in-the-box, 1977, Kenner original toys.
Some of the posters were even signed by the cast.
“HARPER!”
The room was backlit in blue and red, by well-hidden LED lighting strips. A full-sized set of stormtrooper armor stood menacingly in one corner, blaster drawn. On the other side, a life-sized model of Luke Skywalker opposed it, all shrouded in Jedi robes and sporting a black-gloved hand.
There were Star Wars Lego kits everywhere. Old ones. Discontinued ones. Ones that I never even knew of. She had the AT-AT Walker, the Falcon, the Imperial Star Destroyer from the Ultimate Collector Series. Rare mini-figures from over a decade ago worth hundreds of dollars each, displayed in clear Lucite cases, their weapons held high.
“I know, I know,” she finally sighed. “It’s a disease.”
If it was a disease, I certainly had it too. Her case might just be terminal, though.
“Is… Is that—”
I pointed to a frame within a frame. A tiny piece of plastic, enshrouded within a shadowbox.
“That’s not… that can’t be—”
“Yes,” she said, her voice filled with pride. “It is.”
The certificate of authenticity told me what I already knew. Standing before me, at eye-level, was a tiny piece of gray foam carved meticulously by hand. An original, screen-used section of the Death Star’s surface.
“I… I…”
