Bridges Burned (Going Down in Flames #2)(60)

“Like what?” her grandmother asked.

Seriously? “Does he”—she pointed to her grandfather—“bring Directorate members in for lunch and ignore you and everyone else in the room?”

“Mostly.”

“Then why eat in the same room?” It didn’t make sense.

“Because this is where Abigail serves lunch.”

Okay, then. What to talk about now? Her brain went back to their previous conversation. “You never answered me before. Was Nola questioned about the blueprints?”

“She likes to plan her sets based on real blueprints to make them more realistic.”

Bryn snorted. All three adults in the room shot her disapproving looks.

“What? I’ve painted those sets. If Nola uses blueprints as inspiration, then something is lost in the translation.”

“What are you going on about?” Ferrin asked.

“How did Alec know the layout of the estate well enough to attack us that night? Nola was the last to check out the blueprints. Alec was her brother.”

“Do you think the Directorate is ignorant of those facts?” Ferrin asked.

“Before you continue talking to me like I’m an idiot, you should know your son was the one who suggested this line of investigation.” That shut the jerk up.

Her grandfather gave her a sideways glance. Was he mad at her? Too bad. She would wear uncomfortable shoes and do her best to act like the young lady her grandparents wanted her to be, but when Ferrin came into the equation, all bets were off.

“You’ll have to forgive Bryn. She’s distraught over the death of her parents.” Her grandfather’s tone was flat and even. He observed Ferrin like he was waiting for a reaction. Did he suspect Ferrin of killing her parents? When her mom had jilted Ferrin and run away with her dad—a middle-class Red dragon—Ferrin had been furious. Would he seek revenge in this manner, knowing it would be blamed on the brewing civil war? Maybe.

“My condolences.” Ferrin’s tone was tight, like the words strangled him.

She nodded in response. Her throat grew tight and her eyes burned. And she’d be damned if she’d cry in front of him. Setting her fork down, she pushed away from the table. “May I be excused?”

“Of course,” her grandmother said. “I’ll send Abigail to check on you in a while.”





Chapter Twenty-Three


Bryn paced back and forth at the foot of her bed. It felt like a crater the size of the Grand Canyon had been ripped open in her chest. She’d cried on and off for the last half hour.

Her mind screamed that her parents couldn’t just be…gone. Maybe they’d escaped the explosion. They were smart. Maybe they realized the package was a bomb and flew away before it exploded. There had to be at least a 1 percent chance they had escaped.

Pound. Pound. Pound. It felt like someone was hitting her in the head with a hammer. Scratch that. It felt like someone was inside her skull trying to break out. Maybe a hot shower and comfortable clothes would help.

Half an hour later, she wore a pair of her favorite comfy jeans and Valmont’s sweatshirt, which she’d never returned. If anyone could comfort her right now, it was Valmont. In fact, he would consider it his duty as her knight.

She grabbed the phone on her nightstand. No dial tone. Crap. She wanted to call Fonzoli’s and at least speak to Valmont, if she couldn’t see him.

Maybe the phone was unplugged. She followed the cord to the wall. Nope, it was plugged in. She picked up the phone and pressed zero, just to see what would happen. Nothing. Her grandparents had more money than Fort Knox; it’s not like someone cut off their phone service because they hadn’t paid the bill on time.

Ring. Ring.

Bryn jumped from the unexpected noise. She picked up the phone. “Hello?”

“Did you require something?” a feminine voice asked.

“I was trying to make a phone call.”

“My name is Rindy. I’m the operator for Sinclair Estates. I can place a call for you.”

That wasn’t weird at all. “I can call myself, if you tell me how to make the phone work.”

“It’s no trouble,” Rindy chirped.

This wasn’t worth the argument right now. “I was trying to call Fonzoli’s restaurant.”

“I can have the chef prepare anything you like.”

“Thank you. I wanted to speak to a person at Fonzoli’s named Valmont. Not order food.” Although now that she thought about it, pizza sounded good.

“I’ll put the call through for you; please stay on the line.”

“Sure.” Why was making a simple call so difficult? Did her grandparents not trust her with a phone? Was this their way of monitoring who she spoke to?

“Hello, Bryn.” Valmont’s relaxed tone washed over her and she loosened her death grip on the phone.

“Hey. Can we meet somewhere?” she asked.

“Sure, I can pick you up in fifteen minutes.”

“I’m at my grandparents’ place.” And now that she thought about it, she wasn’t sure of the directions to the estate. Both times she’d come here, she’d slept in the car. “We may have to ask Rindy to give you directions.”

“Don’t worry, Fonzoli’s has catered dinner parties for your grandparents before. I know the way. It’ll take half an hour. Do you want me to bring some lemon ice?”