The Price of Grace (Black Ops Confidential 2)

Gracie’s head spun between him and her momma. His hand grew sweaty against the handle of Gracie’s suitcase. “I’m not investigating anyone right now.”

“What’s that mean?” one of the older family members said from the steps. He looked up at her, and she looked back, brazen as all hell. The woman in her twenties had a blue stripe in her shiny black hair and a tattoo along her neck that he couldn’t make out.

He heard Gracie whisper, “Troublemakers.”

Momma turned to the woman who’d spoken. “That is a good question, but not yours to ask.” She shooed everyone up the stairs. “Please find something else to occupy your afternoon.”

Once they all took off, Leland said, “I’m not sure I like him being here at all. There’s a lot we need to discuss.”

Dude’s voice was as rough as his attitude. Though he knew the guy from photos, they hadn’t even been properly introduced. Dusty squared his shoulders; being big had its advantages, like letting this guy know he wasn’t going anywhere. Not without a fight.

Mukta and Leland exchanged a long, wordless glance. Then Leland nodded and stepped back. What was that? Mind readers?

Gracie’s momma turned her gaze back to Dusty. “You both look exhausted. Why don’t you help Gracie to her room? I assume you’ll be staying together. We can talk when you’ve had a chance to rest.”

Mukta took Leland’s arm. They turned and proceeded down the long hallway.

Gracie watched them go with her lips pressed tight. She turned to Dusty. “I wonder how much they know or suspect.”

He wondered too. “Why don’t we follow their suggestion and get some sleep before we go kicking at a hornet’s nest?”

Despite wearing all her worries and her lack of sleep on her beautiful face, she gave him a small smile. “Good point.”

Together, they turned and headed up the elaborate three-story staircase, wrought iron railing decorated in gold leaf.

Somewhere above, hidden by the sweeping turns of the stairway, kids chattered. Their differently accented voices echoed. Probably weren’t many places in the world where this was possible. A regular Tower of Babel. But they seemed to make it work.

At the second landing, the floor branched off in a couple of directions. They turned right and then down the first hall on the left. “This,” she said, “is known as Spice Girls Corridor. It’s where Dada, Justice, Bridget, Tony, and I grew up.”

“Spice Girls? Bet Tony loved that.”

“He hated it. But we’d already had the name by the time he arrived. Momma had planned for our unit to have five. No one could’ve figured the last one would be a boy.”

Planned? This was a bit of Parish culture he’d never heard before. “She plans the group size before adopting the kids.”

“Yep. Momma is big into details. Of course, sometimes it doesn’t work out. One unit, known as the Troublemakers Guild—the dark-haired girl with the blue streak is of that unit—was supposed to have five. But those three are enough to handle on their own.”

“Units are divided by age, not when you’re adopted, right?” Something crossed her face, but he couldn’t decide what it meant. Anger? “Does it bother you that I know that?”

At her door—marked with her name in painted scrolling calligraphy on a beautiful hand-carved white-and-pink plaque—she stopped, shook her head. “No. Actually, makes it easier. And yeah, it goes by birth year. I was the first in my unit.”

Her voice sounded smaller, as if she had reached into the past to retrieve it. “I can remember each of my siblings being added. Tony was twelve. The last one. The day he came marching down this hall with a new backpack, we were all waiting outside our suites. He looked so angry. I was so excited, so happy. I told Justice, ‘We’re complete now.’”

Dusty’s breath came faster than it should. His head hurt the way it always did when he thought of Tony. Leave it be, man. Leave it be.

They walked into her room. Not a room. More, as she’d said, a suite. There was a sitting area, a wall of windows, and a round table with a colorful mandala painted on top. The suite had been freshly made up, but still had the feel of a teen. Posters, teenage memorabilia, and photos.

There were a series of inset bookcases filled with books and model planes and a couple of Muay Thai trophies.

Gracie walked over to the table. “Knights of the Round Table,” she said, picking up a red-framed photo of her unit from the center.

A tear fell from her eye. She put the photo down. He could feel her starting to close down, growing quiet. She turned and, without a word, went down a hallway leading off from the large sitting area. He followed past a huge closet and small bathroom. She stripped off her clothes, socks, bra, and tossed them willy-nilly onto the floor. She was losing it.

He placed her suitcase in the closet and picked up her clothes as he trailed behind her.

By the time he got into the bedroom, she was curled up on her side in her undies, on top of the blankets.

The bed was an exact match of the one he’d seen in her apartment. A huge bed with a wood canopy. Made him a little claustrophobic. But for her…

He took off his own clothes and put them, along with hers, on a chaise by the floor-to-ceiling windows. Beyond the windows was a park of a backyard with shrubs crafted to look like animals, walkways lined with flowers, and multiple seating areas.

He tugged the blankets out from under her, climbed into bed, gathered her to himself, and kissed the tears from her cheeks.

Chapter 45

Twenty hours after they’d arrived, Dusty awoke. For a moment, the panic of his dream changed into the panic of not knowing where he was. And then as he realized where he was, who was curled up in his arms, relief swept over him.

Just a dream. He’d dreamed Gracie was trapped in a burning building. He’d broken down door after door only to find himself faced with another door. Unable to reach her, he’d rammed his fists against the walls, trying to beat them down.

It had felt so real. Now with her warm and tucked up against him, he breathed deeply and said a prayer of gratitude to his Lord. And he made a decision. He’d do whatever he could to keep Gracie safe. Even if that meant allying with her vigilante family and the head of that family, Mukta Parish.

He kissed her lightly on her cheek. Warm. Then on the side of her lips. Heat. This woman had no idea what she did to him. She did enough that he was going to meet with her mother, ask her straight out about the digital recordings of Sheila. He needed the truth before he brought it up to Gracie.

He rolled out of the bed with care. Tired as she was, Grace didn’t stir. He grabbed his jeans, T-shirt, and boots, took a pit stop in the bathroom, got cleaned up—bathroom was as well stocked as a posh hotel—and dressed. On his way, he grabbed an apple from a giant breakfast spread on the round table. He chewed as he went to find Mukta.

Though he’d never been here before, Dusty knew nearly every inch—well, every inch aboveground of the Mantua Home. The bureau had done a great job of taking photos and videos when they’d been here a couple of months ago.

The interior of the home was what his mother would’ve called a hodgepodge. Some folks called it eclectic. Mukta had done her best to incorporate a little from each culture in the decor. There was an almost comic mix of artwork in the wide hallway, with large floor lamps, ornate furnishings, tapestries, and thick hall furniture.

What he hadn?

?t known from those photos and reports was what he now found most interesting. The smell of the place, clean and floral. The way all these cultures and personalities meshed. How did Mukta get them to feel such loyalty and kinship? The way they’d hugged Gracie. Still made his throat go tight.

He jogged lightly down the front interior stairs as the sound of kids playing drifted up from the indoor gym. Though Gracie’s room had seemed a quiet oasis, the main part of the house was filled with laughter, teasing, and games.

Couldn’t get over the fact that they had a gym off their elaborate front corridor. Four open doors, molded with dark wood, showed two teams playing a game of dodgeball.

The one male Parish, Gracie’s younger brother—Romeo—played the role of referee. He had on an eye patch and was doing a fair Steve the Pirate from the movie Dodgeball, saying things like “Bollocks,” and “Gar, this sucks.”

Funny kid. He passed the gym and continued along the corridor with its hand-crafted red velvet gold-filigree designs.

The kind of money here…was insane. He drew up short as a little girl came running down the hall.

He called to her, “Where can I find Momma?”

She ran past, shouted, “In the library.”

Russian accent?

Farther down the hall, marble pillars marked the grand entrance to the even grander library, with two-tiered walkways and books from floor to ceiling.

The library was downright charming. Colorful, with statues of fairies and imaginative ornamental globes. Two large chandeliers of winged pixies with tiny colored mirrors reflecting light—like twinkling stardust.

There were several seating areas and tables for private or group study. Mukta sat at a long table with a bank of Mac computers. She rose and came around the table. She wore a pastel pink business suit and matching niqab. She shook his hand. “Welcome. Welcome.”

She had a good voice. Sort of whiskey and syrup. Sweet and strong. “Thank you. And thanks for your hospitality.”

Her dark eyes never wavered from his. A direct woman. “It was the least I could do to repay you for being there for Gracie. Come sit.” She sat and patted the seat beside hers.