Page 42 of Brutal
“Come on,” I say.
I turn again, moving down another corridor, away from the stone, away from that moment.
She follows.
We move through the rest of the house without stopping. Delaney doesn’t hesitate, and she doesn’t intrude. She’s simply present.
That, more than anything, is what I notice.
Most people adjust themselves in a place like this. She doesn’t.
And she doesn’t attempt to walk next to me. She’s comfortable letting me lead, which surprises me. Then again, it also makes sense. This place is foreign to her. Hell, it feels foreign to me half the time.
Her curiosity should make her easier to predict.
It doesn’t.
We reach a set of doors that open onto a narrow balcony overlooking the lower level.
I stop.
She steps up beside me.
For a moment, neither of us speaks.
“You built this,” she says.
I did not. This house was built a century ago. But my father built the structure. And my brothers and I—well, Nate and I; Cain left before he had much of a role—honed it.
“Yes.”
“It doesn’t feel like a place people live.”
“It’s not.” I thin my lips. “I mean, that’s not its main purpose.”
“Then what is its main purpose?”
A simple question.
A complicated answer.
I don’t reply. Simply lead her back to the front of the house.
At the door, she pauses. “So,” she says, turning to face me. “Was the tour part of the invitation I didn’t get?”
A faint smile touches my mouth. “You came anyway.”
“Yes.”
“And did you find what you were looking for?”
“No.”
She’s honest. I respect that.
“Then I suppose you’ll have to come back,” I say.
“Maybe,” she says.
