Page 35 of Unbound

“They aren’t prescription, but if you need some bifocals, I’m sure I can make it happen.” I grunt, pushing myself upright. “I can order them when I restock your cardigans and butterscotch candies.”

“Yeah, yeah. I’m an old lady trapped in a thirty-two-year-old body. Hilarious.” Sybil rubs her lips together again, dragging my attention to her mouth.

Probably not an area of her I should be focusing on. But instead of using all my willpower to avoid thinking of it in any carnal fashion, I’m immediately distracted by the rim of red circling her slightly dehydrated-looking lips. Does this woman even realize she has to take care of herself in order to accomplish what she’s set out to do?

Clearly not.

Turning away, I march into the kitchen, opening the drawer containing my stash of Chapstick. It’s nothing fancy, but it gets the job done. After collecting a bottle of water from the refrigerator, I carry both into the office. I unscrew the cap on the beverage and set it on a coaster before uncapping the lip balm and holding it out. “Put some of this on.”

Again, Sybil doesn’t even look away from her task. She reaches out, managing to take the Chapstick from me without missing before smearing it on. Her hand comes in my general direction as she passes it off with a distracted, “Thank you.”

I grab the water and scoot it closer. “Drink.”

Once more, Sybil does what I tell her to without argument, downing a few gulps of the cold liquid while continuing what she’s doing.

Apparently, the easiest way to get her to do what I want is to set her to a task she’s interested in. I file the tidbit of information away because I’m pretty fucking sure I’m gonna need it in the future.

Often.

Since it’s clear we’re going to be here for a while, I drop into the overstuffed chair angled in one corner. I prop both legs onto the matching ottoman, surprised at how comfortable it is. I don’t think I’ve ever actually sat in the thing. There’s never been a reason to. If I was in here, I was behind the desk. When I was done, I went to sit on the couch where I could watch TV. Now it seems like a waste to have such a comfortable piece of furniture in an area where it will never be used.

Not once Sybil moves on anyway. For now, I fully intend to partake in all it has to offer.

Leaning my head back against the cushions, I close my eyes, relaxing. Maybe I can even sneak in a nap. Nothing long. Just a few minutes to carry me through the rest of the day until I can hopefully get a good night’s sleep.

Unless my new ward decides to try to burn my house down again.

I’m just starting to drift off, blissfully comfortable and oddly settled, when Sybil’s gasp sends me sitting straight up. Heart racing, I nearly fall trying to get to my feet, barely managing to use the back of the chair to maintain my balance as my eyes bounce wildly around the room looking for the threat. “What’s wrong? What happened?”

Sybil is staring at my laptop, eyes wide, skin pale. Her gaze slowly lifts to look at me over the top of the screen.

I move toward her, unease crawling up my spine at her silence. The woman is never quiet, even when attempting burglary and arson.

Rounding my desk, I grip the back of her chair and lean forward, looking over the document displayed. I try to find what’s caused her so much distress, but it just looks like one of the many useless papers we scanned. “What did you find?”

Sybil raises a hand, pointing out what I first thought was a scribble where someone attempted to get their pen working. Upon closer inspection, it’s actually very messy handwriting, spelling out a woman’s name.

“Shelley?” I turn to scan Sybil’s face for any sort of recognition. “Do you know a woman named Shelley?”

I rack my own brain, trying to remember my mother’s friends. Her coworkers. Our neighbors. The fucking mail lady.

But the name Shelley doesn’t ring a bell.

“It’s not a woman’s name.” Sybil swallows hard, the line of her throat working with the motion. Her face angles my way. “And I know who it belongs to.”

12

Sybil

Iwas hoping to find something useful in these documents, but after searching through information a lot like this for months with little to show for it, I didn’t expect I’d be successful. I certainly didn’t anticipate locating something so significant so quickly. I almost can’t believe it.

But it’s right there in front of my face, scrawled in messy handwriting.

Shelley

A name Walker and his family may have discounted because they assumed it belonged to a woman. It doesn’t.

“My dad’s nickname was Shelley.” My eyes start to water just looking at a piece of him. A piece likely created the day he was killed.