Web of Lies (Page 28)

In addition to healing with their hands, Air elementals like Jo-Jo could also infuse their magic in various products, like the ointment she’d just handed me. The ointment wouldn’t work as well as Jo-Jo healing me herself, but it would keep me from keeling over until I could get to her. Jo-Jo also gave me a couple of smaller containers of the ointment, including one that looked like a makeup compact and another solid tube of it that resembled lipstick.

"Thanks," I said. "I have a feeling I’m going to need these, if I’m getting mixed up with Tobias Dawson."

Jo-Jo’s white eyes clouded over. "Maybe. Although I don’t think the tub will be much help. Not this time."

Her voice was soft and distant, like she was somewhere far away instead of standing in front of me. In addition to her healing powers, Jo-Jo also had a bit of precognition.

Most Airs did. They could read vibrations and feelings in the wind just like I could in whatever stone was near me.

But where my element whispered to me of the past, theirs often hinted at the future. Another way the two elements opposed each other.

After a moment, Jo-Jo’s eyes cleared, and she stared at me. "So, are we ever going to talk about it?"

"Talk about what?" I asked, sliding the compact and lipstick tube into my jeans pocket.

"That folder I gave you. The one Fletcher spent so long working on."

I grimaced. Jo-Jo had been the one who’d given me the folder about my murdered family two months ago soon after Fletcher’s funeral. The dwarf had told me to come talk to her about the information when I was ready.

Something else I hadn’t done yet.

"What’s there to talk about?" I shrugged. "For some reason, Fletcher Lane knew who I really was all along, and he never said a word to me about it. Instead, he spent his free time compiling all the info he could on my dead family, like I was another one of his targets. Some hit he was trying to figure out how to do. The old man gives the folder to you, then gets murdered before he can tell me about it – or what the hell he wanted me to do with the information. I don’t see what we have to discuss."

Jo-Jo stared at me. "Your sister, for starters."

I snorted. "Oh yes, my baby sister, Bria, who I find out is alive after thinking she was dead for seventeen years."

"I can understand why you feel hurt, why you feel like Fletcher betrayed you. But family is everything, Gin," the dwarf said in a soft voice. "Whether it’s the one you’re born into or the one you make for yourself. Bria is your blood, your sister, and she’s alive. You can’t just ignore that."

"Fletcher left me a picture of her, but he didn’t tell me how to find her. Where she’s at, what she’s even like now. Kind of sloppy of him to omit that information, don’t you think?" I snapped.

"Fletcher Lane never did anything he didn’t mean to," Jo-Jo said. "He left you that picture for a reason. You’ll understand why one day."

The tone of her voice made the wheels of my brain grind together – just like my teeth were doing. My gray eyes burned into her light ones. "You know, don’t you? You know why he compiled that information."

Jo-Jo tilted her head. "I have some ideas."

"Care to share?" I asked in a sarcastic tone.

The dwarf shook her head. "It’s not my place. This is between you and Fletcher."

"He’s dead."

"Doesn’t mean he still can’t speak to you," Jo-Jo said.

"All you have to do is be willing to listen."

I opened my mouth to tell her to cut out the cryptic talk, that it was a little hard to have a conversation with someone who was buried six feet under. But Finn chose that moment to stroll into the salon. He jangled his car keys in his hand.

"You ready?" Finn asked.

I glanced at him. "Sophia cleaned the blood out of the back of the Aston already? How the hell did she do that?"

"Soap, water, and some dwarven elbow grease," Finn replied. "That woman’s a genius. Smells and looks just like it did the day I got it."

There were only so many things you could do with soap and water. I didn’t think getting blood out of leather was one of them. I looked at Jo-Jo, who gave me a guileless grin I didn’t buy for a minute. I loved the two dwarven sister, but the longer I was around Jo-Jo and Sophia Deveraux, the more I realized I didn’t know anything about them. Not really. Not anything that seemed to matter, like the truth. Just as I hadn’t seemed to know the real Fletcher Lane, either.

You ready?" Finn asked again.

I stared at Jo-Jo a moment longer, then turned to him.

"Yeah. Let’s get out of here."

Finn dropped me off at Fletcher’s house, agreed to meet me at the Pork Pit tomorrow, then headed back to his apartment in the city. I checked the gravel in the driveway and the granite around the front door, using my Stone magic to listen for disturbances. But all the stones gave off their usual low, quiet vibrations. No visitors today.

But I always checked. Even in my retirement, I couldn’t afford to lower my guard, especially not now with this mess with Jake McAllister going on. Because Jake had been royally pissed when the cops had dragged him away the other night. I had no doubt he was thinking about what he could do to hurt me, to get me to drop the charges against him. After all, he’d been ready to fry me with his Fire elemental magic just for what was in the cash register. Torture and murder wasn’t a big leap to make from there. Whether Jake actually made a run at me or not was still up in the air. But I’d be ready either way.

It wasn’t that late, but it had been a hell of a day. So I took a shower, threw on a pair of pajamas, and went to bed. I fell asleep almost immediately, and sometime later, the dream began…

I stood in the Pork Pit, chopping onions to add to tomorrow’s baked beans. Despite the harsh, stinging aroma, my eyes didn’t water. I never cried. Not anymore. Not since my family had been murdered. But that didn’t mean I couldn’t worry. My eyes flicked up to the clock on the wall: 10:05. A minute later than the last time I’d looked. Fear tightened my stomach until it felt as hard as the brick of the restaurant around me.

"He’s late," I said in a soft voice.

"Don’t be a worrywart, Gin," a teenage voice sneered behind me. "He always comes back."

I stopped my chopping and turned to look at Finnegan Lane. At fifteen, Finn was two years older than me, with a mop of dark brown hair and eyes that reminded me of wet grass. He was tall, with a solid chest that was already filling out. Nothing like my long, gangly, spider-thin arms and legs.

Finn perched on a stool in front of the cash register and sucked up the last dregs of the triple chocolate milkshake I’d made him. Finn didn’t like me much, seeing me as competition for his widowed father’s time, attention, and affection.