Page 22 of Stealing Cinder

The main staircase rises to my left. I grip the banister, the wood worn smooth beneath my palm from decades of use. The familiar grain anchors me for half a second before I take the stairs two at a time.

Third step. The creak. I skip it from muscle memory and keep climbing.

At the top of the landing, the hallway stretches toward the back of the house. The study door is closed. I reach for the brass handle and the warped board beneath my feet groans under my weight, announcing me to a room that has no one in it anymore.

The door swings open. Lamplight pools over dark wood, warm and golden. It spills across the desk and bookshelves. Heavy drapes hang closed over the windows.

I step inside and close the door behind me. Grief hits me instantly.

This room used to smell of old books, leather, and the faint sweetness of the peppermints my father kept in a glass jar on the corner of his desk.

Now the desk holds Edgar's cigars. A crystal ashtray sits where the peppermint jar used to be. Stacks of paperwork replace the crossword books. The leather chair by the window has been swapped for something newer, stiffer.

But the bones of this room hold my memories.

And the safe.

I cross to the mahogany wainscoting on the far wall. My fingers find the seam without searching. The panel clicks open under the pressure of my thumb against the hidden latch, smooth and silent, the mechanism my father installed and Edgar never discovered.

The safe door gleams dull silver in the lamplight. I press my fingertips to the dial.

My mother's birthday. Month. Day. Year. The numbers turn under my touch and the lock gives with a soft, heavy click that reverberates through my sternum.

I pull the door open.

The gun sits on a velvet interior, matte black and polished. A limited edition Beretta my father purchased at auction years ago. One of twelve ever made. The same model documented in the police report as the weapon that killed Vincent Ashford. The weapon the police never recovered.

My pulse pounds so hard I can barely hear my surroundings. Each breath comes shallow and fast, pulling the stale air of the study into lungs that refuse to expand all the way. I reach for the gun. My fingers brush the cool metal and a shudder rolls through me from wrist to shoulder.

Finally.

"There you are. Like an angel appearing out of thin air."

I spin. My back presses flat against the open safe, one hand braced on the panel, the other hovering at my side.

Samuel’s large body fills every inch of the doorway. Lamplight catches one side of his face. Deep shadow swallows the other half. He leans his heavy weight against the wood frame, arms crossed, cigar pinched between two scarred fingers.

My heart slams against my ribs. Once. Twice. Hard enough to bruise.

"I wondered where you ran off to." His voice is low, controlled, and the rough edge of it drags over my skin with a familiarity my body has not forgotten. His dark eyes move from my face down the length of my body. "I never figured it would be to the arms of a friend."

Ouch. And also what the fuck?

Judgment threads through the mistaken observation.

I straighten my spine when he tosses in another jab for good measure.

"I didn't know you were a thief, too."

“Fuck you, Samuel. You don’t know a damn thing you’re talking about.”

His gaze is locked on my midsection. On the curve of my belly pressing against the halter top where the apron has shifted. I don't realize my hand has moved to rest over my baby until his eyes follow the motion and stop cold.

The silence in the room is deafening.

He pushes off the doorframe and crosses the study in three unhurried strides. The cigar lands in the crystal tray on my father's desk with a quiet thud, and he turns to face me without breaking eye contact. The warm glow from the desk lamp traces the hard edges of his jaw, the ink climbing his throat.

His beard is thicker than I remember. Darker, with more silver woven through the trim. His hair hangs loose tonight, dark waves brushing past his shoulders. I force my eyes off the familiar strands and find the fire burning in his stare.