Son of Stone (Stone Barrington 21)

“I’ll talk to you downstairs. Now go!”

Reluctantly, he went.

She rinsed her hair thoroughly, then shut off the water and felt for the bath sheet on the hook outside the door. She dried herself, then picked up the hair dryer and dried her blond hair, helping it into place with a brush. That done, she applied her makeup, then got into her traveling clothes, a pants suit. She picked up the phone in her dressing room and pressed a button for her son’s room. “Peter,” she said, “time to get up.”

He picked up the phone. “I’m way ahead of you,” he said. “I’m packing.”

“Good boy.” She hung up and went downstairs. Tim had prepared eggs, bacon, and toast, and she sat down and began to eat.

“Where are you going?” Tim asked. He seemed calmer now.

“To New York.”

“Why?”

“Family business.”

“You don’t want to tell me?”

“Not really. It’s none of your business. Eat your breakfast; I want you gone before Peter comes down.”

He made a stab at the food. “How long will you be gone?”

“Through Christmas,” she said.

“We’ll have to talk about the finishing touches on the house.”

“You can reach me on my cell phone,” she said.

“I had hoped we could spend Christmas together,” he said. “The three of us.”

“Tim, there isn’t going to be any three of us. Peter is visiting his father in New York.”

“I thought his father was dead.”

“That was his stepfather.”

He looked puzzled. “Vance Calder wasn’t Peter’s father?”

“He was not.”

“Then who is?”

“Please don’t concern yourself with my private life,” Arrington said. She stood up and put her dishes in the sink. “I have to finish packing now. We’ll be leaving soon.” She heard Peter coming down the stairs.

“Please leave quickly by the back door,” she said, taking his halfeaten breakfast and scraping it into the garbage disposal.

“We’ll talk tomorrow,” he said, getting into his coat.

“Not unless it’s something about the house,” she replied.

He gave her an angry look, then he walked out the kitchen door.

Peter came into the kitchen. “What’s for breakfast?” he asked. He was fifteen now, big and mature for his age.

“What would you like?”

“Oh, I’ll just toast myself a muffin,” he said, opening the fridge.