Wicked Truths (Hunt Legacy Duology 2)

Frighteningly, in this moment of madness, I realise that now. And I positively hate myself for being curious and intrigued by the story. I hate that I’ve wondered if and where the sculpture can be found. I hate that I’ve got a thrill each time I’ve thought about it. And I hate that I’ve slowly and silently come to understand Becker’s obsession. But now, the potential of really losing him to that myth is all too real. Because the map can be completed.

‘When your father posted the map back to you,’ the old man says, ‘I intercepted it.’ He gives Becker cautious eyes. ‘I knew he’d found the missing piece, and I didn’t want you to have it.’

‘So you took it?’ Becker asks on a choke of air.

‘So I took it,’ his grandfather confirms.

‘All this time you know I’ve been searching for it, and you had it?’

‘You weren’t supposed to be searching for it,’ Gramps bellows, his back lifting off the bed with the effort. ‘You promised me you wouldn’t.’

‘Where’s your stick?’ Becker starts scanning the room, as do I, searching for the old man’s walking aid. It’s been here at The Haven the whole time. The missing piece of the map has been right under Becker’s nose, hidden in his grandfather’s walking stick. But it isn’t under his nose now. Now, old Mr H’s trusty walking stick is nowhere to be seen.

‘Don’t tell him.’ My demand comes out of nowhere, and Becker shoots a shocked look my way.

‘What?’ Becker asks, his eyes widening by the second.

My mind instantly straightening out, the gravity of my situation hitting me hard, I say what I mean. ‘I don’t want you to know where it is.’

‘Eleanor—’

‘No,’ I warn, feeling my jaw tightening. ‘No, Becker.’

‘I need to know,’ he grates, realisation replacing his shock – realisation that I’ll fight him on this. I’ll fight him with everything I have. I’ve accepted so much, but not this. No way. There’s a reason his grandfather has kept the missing piece of the map from Becker, and I’m with him. All the thrill, all the excitement, it’s gone. I will not stand back and watch him follow in his father’s footsteps.

‘No,’ I repeat.

‘It doesn’t mean I want to find the sculpture.’ He’s lying. I know he’s lying.

‘Medusa, give me strength!’ Old Mr H yells. ‘You expect me to believe that passion and urge in you goes away just like that? That need for vengeance deep, deep inside you, boy, will never be gone, no matter how hard you try, and no matter how much time you dedicate to our business. Having a woman on your arm hasn’t quenched your thirst for adventure. It hasn’t chased away the thrill of danger, so don’t you dare try to convince me otherwise.’

I drift off into my own world, wondering if the deep-seated urge Becker’s fighting will ever go away. The adventurer and daredevil are inbuilt into the Hunt men. It’s part of their DNA. Maybe it will be a constant battle and worry. Maybe those desires in him will fade over time. Who knows? Nothing is certain.

‘I love her,’ Becker says as he looks at me, his eyes glazed and confused. ‘I love her more than the sculpture, Gramps. I’m more obsessed with her than I am about finding that lump of marble.’ His jaw is going wild, ticking madly. ‘I just need to know for my own sanity. To put it to rest.’

Old Mr Hunt huffs disbelievingly. I can’t help feeling insulted, yet the reasonable side of me points out that he has every reason not to believe Becker. And it has me wondering . . . did the old man confess the whereabouts of the missing piece as a test? To see if Becker would choose me or the sculpture? The thought stings. I was completely unaware that I’d found the missing piece. Mr H could have easily passed off his funny turn as something else. Or could he? Becker knew immediately there was something amiss. Seems my saint is a little more on the ball than I am. But then again, he’s a Hunt man. They’re exceptional at so much, including sleuthing. ‘So you won’t look for it any more?’ Mr H asks outright, his expression daring Becker to lie.

‘No.’ Becker shakes his head adamantly.

Old Mr H glances over to me, and I shake my head mildly, silently begging him not to tell Becker where his stick is, or what he knows is on that missing piece of the map.

‘There are some numbers,’ he starts quietly.

‘No,’ I shout.

But the old man ignores me, a million apologies in his eyes. ‘A code,’ he goes on, and I close my eyes, trying to hide from the wonder that I know will be on Becker’s face.

‘Why did you keep it, Gramps? Why didn’t you destroy it?’