Bridges Burned (Going Down in Flames #2)(59)

“This is amazing.”

“Do you have any interest in gardening?” Her grandmother picked up a brass pitcher and watered a pale pink orchid.

“I’d be happy to learn. We never had a yard.” Bam. Pain ripped through her gut. There was no yard…no apartment…no home to return to…no parents. Just a wrenching, cold ache. She grabbed at the wall. Breathe. Breathe. Breathe. Suck in a breath, and exhale. Push the flames down. Setting her grandmother’s favorite room on fire wouldn’t improve the situation.

Once she was under control, she straightened. “Sorry…it just hit me again.”

Her grandmother nodded. “And it will, over and over again. This isn’t the first time I lost your mother.”

She’d never thought of it that way—the pain her mom had caused when she ran away and abandoned her own family.

Still, her mom had tried to mend fences. She’d sent letters. Made an effort. Had pride kept her grandmother from forgiving her mother? These were questions Bryn needed to ask, but now wasn’t the time.

“Sit,” her grandmother said in a tone that wasn’t a request.

What now? Bryn sank into one of the chairs and waited.

“You must promise me something.” She reached over and placed her hand on Bryn’s. “You must promise me you will never run away. If you wish to leave, you are free to do so. But you cannot disappear in the middle of the night.”

“I promise.” She wouldn’t do that to her grandmother, or anyone, for that matter.

“That’s settled then.” The vulnerable look on her grandmother’s face disappeared as if a mask slid into place. She stood and headed for the door. “We’ll have lunch while your belongings are placed in your new room.”

Apparently the touchy-feely moment was over.

Bryn followed her grandmother back out into the main hall and tried to orient herself. “My rooms are that way?” she asked.

Her grandmother nodded.

“Good. I might need a map to figure out the rest of this place.” Which reminded her, she’d never found an answer about what happened to the blueprints of the house. Focusing on the puzzle gave her something to think about besides her parents.

“How did Alec know the layout of your estate?”

Her grandmother stopped midstride. “That’s quite the topic change.”

“Jaxon asked me that question a while ago. We both think it’s odd that Alec knew about the security elevator and the best place to drag two unconscious victims.” Jaxon and his mother drugged, bound, and gagged like two life-size rag dolls was an image she couldn’t get out of her head.

“Your grandfather and I discussed this. He thinks someone could have taken the blueprints from the school’s library.”

“We checked into that, and they’re not there.”

“We removed them.”

One mystery solved. They continued walking. How far was the dining room? Her feet ached. Stupid high heels. Realizing this was something she had control over, she stepped out of her shoes, picked them up, and continued walking.

The glacial look her grandmother gave her told her exactly how she felt about Bryn’s actions.

“I’ll put them back on before we enter the dining room.” That was all she was willing to concede.

“And you won’t indulge in this behavior in front of your grandfather or any guests.”

Funny how her grandfather fell into the same category as guests. Figuring out her grandparents’ odd relationship could be a full-time hobby.

“So, you removed the blueprints after the attack?” Bryn asked.

“Yes.”

“Did you question Nola since she was the last to have them?”

“Are you asking that question as a rational individual or as a woman resentful of her former suitor’s chosen mate?”

Her grandmother didn’t pull any punches. “Both.”

“Do you still harbor feelings for Zavien?”

“Does bitter disappointment count?”

Her grandmother laughed. It wasn’t a happy sound. “‘Live and learn’ is one of those painfully obvious adages.”

When they reached the dining room, her grandmother stopped and pointed at Bryn’s feet. The shoes. Right. She slipped on the painful black heels and entered what her grandmother referred to as the small dining room, which meant the table could seat sixteen people. At the moment, it was set for eight. Four plates on one end and four on the other. What was with the segregated dining?

“Who’s joining us?” Bryn asked.

“I’m never sure. Sometimes your grandfather has Directorate members dine with us. I find it’s better to be over-prepared.”

A maid Bryn had met before, named Abigail, wheeled a cart into the room and served chicken and asparagus covered in some sort of cream sauce. Rather than ask what it was, and risk looking stupid in her grandmother’s eyes, she dug in. It tasted like Alfredo sauce. Yum.

Her grandfather and Jaxon’s father, Ferrin, joined them halfway through lunch. Out of habit, Bryn braced for an attack.

Neither her grandfather nor Ferrin paid the slightest bit of attention to her or her grandmother. They continued discussing something about security issues while they ate.

“Is it always like this?” Bryn nodded toward her grandfather.