Free Whispers of Fate: The Mistresses of Fate, Book Two by Deirdre Dore Page B

bows. “I’m thinking we should call Tyler. It’s officially his case, his jurisdiction.”
    “Ah.” There was a long pause as Chris digested that tidbit of information. “Well, it’s a good thing Ryan will be there—an armed neutral party is always a good idea.”
    Raquel touched the weapon carefully concealed beneath her T-shirt. “I’m armed.”
    “Yeah, but who would you shoot? Tyler or Tavey?”
    “Probably one of those damn dogs.”
    “You like the dogs.”
    “You and Tavey keep telling yourselves that.”
    Chris chuckled. “Okay, it’ll take us twenty minutes to get there. I have to get dressed.”
    “Oh, really?”
    Chris chuckled again. “Not what you’re thinking.”
    “Why not?”
    “’Cause Ryan wanted to go for a run. The man doesn’t think yoga is a workout.”
    “Because it’s not.”
    “Cops are such snobs.”
    A smile tickled the corner of Raquel’s mouth in spite of her worry over Tavey. “I’ll see you over there, sugar.”
    “Sounds good. Bye, Quelly.”
    “Bye.”
    Raquel pressed the button to hang up the phone and walked over to her antique cedar chest of drawers. On the top were three photographs in fancy enamel frames dotted with crystals. One was a candid shot of Summer, Chris, Tavey, and Raquel as girls; they were playing in the grass while white sheets hanging out on the line to dry blew in the breeze behind them. Raquel’s grandmother had taken the picture, though she’d been yelling at them all afternoon not to pull down her sheets. The other two photographs were formal portraits, one of Raquel’s mother, the other of her grandmother. Her mother looked as lovely and fabulous as she did on the covers of her albums in a dark purple dress with a flower in her hair. Her grandmother’s portrait was even older, yellowed around the edges, with a fireplace in the background. Raquel recognized it as the fireplace in the main room at the Collins house. Her grandmother was wearing a uniform, a black dress with a white collar, and her hair was pulled into a tidy bun.
    Raquel slid open the top drawer of her dresser and pulled out a small field kit with evidence collection bags, a camera, an extra cell phone, and first aid supplies. She doubted very much that anything was going to come of this day’s findings, but it didn’t hurt to be prepared.
    She glanced at the full-length mirror next to the dresser and saw neither her mother nor her grandmother, but a woman stuck somewhere in between, not all black, not all white, beautiful but not talented, hardworking but not content.
    “At least you’re not like your mother,” she told her reflection with a small grimace. Her grandmother loved to tell her that, not seeing it as a backhanded compliment.
    Turning away from the mirror, she picked up the field kit and her cell phone, scrolling through her contact list as she walked down the hall to the front of the house. She found Tyler’s name and pressed the button to call him.
    “Downs.”
    “Tyler, it’s Raquel.”

10

    CIRCE MANAGED TO keep her husband busy in bed most of the week, distracting him from thoughts of searching for it just yet, but now he was getting impatient. He wanted her to come with him this afternoon, hike through the woods out to the mill.
    She didn’t want to hike through the woods, but she understood his worry. Driving over to the mill wasn’t a smart move. The old service road that ran to it wasn’t used often, but there was enough traffic that someone might notice, or it was entirely possible that someone could be watching . . . FBI, police, or even the gang, if Mark was right about them not forgetting.
    She supposed that much money was hard to forget.
    Old Ninny was eyeing her suspiciously, her gaze narrowed in the passenger seat of the car.
    “What is that husband of yours up to, Jane?”
    Circe realized that she’d been chewing on her lower lip as she drove, and she scowled. “He isn’t up to anything; he just wants a little