Free Silver Eyes by Nicole Luiken Page A

the Castellan family. I sent my luggage ahead, but chose to walk myself to get a feel for the place. The warm desert sun felt good on my back.
    Unlike the Taber building, SilverDollar Tucson had scorned the glossy, high-tech look in favor of charming haciendas with red-tiled roofs. The motorized walkways that connected the complex were below ground, their presence advertised only by discreet gold-plate markers. The lawns that I walked through had been irrigated green, and the trees were old and mighty (if they were force-grown I couldn’t tell.)
    Two orange trees marked the Castellan house. It was large but not the mansion I’d expected.
    A middle-aged woman in a vivid pink dress answered the door. Her walnut brown hair was coiled neatly at the nape of her neck. “You are Miss Angel?” She had a Spanish accent.
    I nodded.
    â€œI am Graciana Pasos, the housekeeper. Congratulations.”
    â€œOn what?” I asked, startled.
    â€œWere you not told? You are a finalist in Mr. Timothy’s contest.”
    â€œThat’s good news,” I lied. How could I be a finalist? I’d only just written the essay, and I’d written it in frantic haste.
    The answer was simple. I couldn’t be a finalist in a legitimate contest. Eddy must have cheated to have my name added to the list. But why? “Are all the finalists staying here in this house?” I asked.
    â€œYes.” She motioned me inside and I followed. “Mr. Timothy apologizes for not being here to meet you. There is a message for you in the living room.” She showed me the vidphone, then withdrew.
    From Graciana’s wording, I had expected the recording to be from Timothy, so I was jolted when a video image of a silver-haired woman in a cherry red suit came up.
    I didn’t recognize her; I hoped she wasn’t someone I’d forgotten. My heart rate doubled. Could the message be from my mother? There were a dozen reasons why that was unlikely, but I was still bitterly disappointed when the woman’s first words proved it.
    â€œMs. Eastland, I recognized your name when Timothy told me who the finalists were. I know you work for SilverDollar, which means you work for me.”
    This was Timothy’s mother, I realized, president of SilverDollar. Which explained the large desk she was sitting behind.
    She leaned forward so that her face filled the screen, and I could see the power radiating from her as well as the crow’s feet in the corners of her eyes. “I assume Edward has planted you in the house to prevent a second kidnapping.”
    Kidnapping? A second kidnapping? There’d already been a first? Of whom?
    â€œI thought about having you kicked out,” President Castellan continued, “but Timothy would have to be told, and I don’t want him upset right now. I’m going to let you stay, but understand this: you work for me, not Edward. If you do something I don’t like, you will develop a terrible case of the flu and have to be flown home.” Threat over, she sat back again. “Ms. Eastland, my son doesn’t need a bodyguard. He needs a friend.”
    Click. The recording ended, leaving me with plenty of food for thought. And anger at Eddy. Why hadn’t he, or Anaximander, mentioned that Timothy had once been kidnapped?
    President Castellan didn’t seem to like Eddy very much—had calling him by his full name been some sort of insult?—but reading between the lines, I could tell she was also worried about her son. Interesting.
    Graciana erased the message, then gave me a quick tour of the house—kitchen, dining room, living room, a bathroom, and three bedrooms on the main floor; two more bedrooms, a second bathroom, and an office on the second floor. “Let me know if you need anything. Breakfast is at eight, supper is at six.” Having delivered me to one of the main-floor bedrooms, she backed away.
    The room I’d been given was much nicer