Snared (Elemental Assassin #16)(90)

The more I learned about Hugh Tucker, the less sense I could make of him.

“I know you’re upset, Gin,” Bria said. “But it’s not your fault that Rivera’s dead and we can’t question him about the Circle.”

I waved my hand, cutting her off. “No. I’m not upset. Not really. Sorry I lost my temper. I know you’re right. So let’s look on the bright side of things.”

Bria arched her eyebrows, surprised by my sudden change in attitude. “And what is that?”

I grinned. “Tucker saved me the trouble of going over there and killing Rivera myself. Why, you might even say that he gave me the day off.”





29


Given my nasty fall off the cliffs, Jo-Jo insisted on checking me out one more time. She gave me a clean bill of health, and I left the salon and went back home to Fletcher’s house.

Finn and Silvio were both there waiting for me, sitting in the den, with stacks and stacks of papers spread out all around them and covering every available surface, from the couch cushions to the coffee table to the open space in front of the fireplace.

“Finally! I thought you were never going to get here. We’ve been working for hours already,” Finn said, the words rushing out of his mouth without him even stopping to take a breath.

He reached over, grabbed a large mug, and took a long swig. I could smell the strong scent of chicory coffee all the way across the den. From the bright glaze in Finn’s eyes, it looked like he’d had at least a pot of the stuff -already—maybe more.

“What’s going on? I thought that you guys cleaned up all the Dollmaker files and sent them back to the police station.”

“Oh, we did,” Silvio said, his demeanor much calmer than Finn’s. “But we decided to start on a new project.”

“And what would that be?”

Finn rolled his eyes and took another swig of coffee. “Figuring out who Mason is, of course. You know, the name that Rivera dropped to you last night? The one that you kept repeating over and over again in your concussed state? The guy who is probably the leader of the Circle?”

“That’s what this is all about?” I asked.

“Of course,” Finn chirped. “Not that we’ve been getting anywhere, though. Do you know how many people named Mason—first and last—there are in the Ashland area? Hundreds of them, maybe even thousands. And Mason may not even be his real name.”

He tossed up a wad of papers in indignation, then glared at them as they drifted down to the floor around him like square snowflakes.

Silvio cleared his throat. “I think what Finn is trying to say is that even with the name, we’re still looking for a needle in a haystack.” He gestured at all the papers. “A very large haystack.”

I could see that, but my throat still closed up to think that they’d cared enough to start searching anyway, without my even asking them to. It took some of the sting out of the fact that Tucker had gotten to Damian Rivera before I did. Still, that little warning bell clanged in the back of my mind again.

Mason. Where did I know that name from? And why did I get the sinking feeling that learning the answer would only cause me more heartache?

“Gin?” Silvio asked. “Are you okay? Is something on your mind?”

I pushed my worries away and plastered a smile on my face. “I’m fine. I was just thinking that I have the utmost faith and confidence in y’all. If anyone can track down this Mason fella, it’s the two of you.”

Finn snorted. “Faith? Faith is all well and good . . .” He deliberately let his voice trail off.

I sighed, knowing what was coming next. “But?”

“But dinner would really help. With dessert.” He waggled his eyebrows. “Lots of dessert.”

I rolled my eyes, leaned over, and ruffled his hair.

“Hey, now!” Finn smoothed his dark brown locks back down into place. “Don’t mess with the ’do.”

I ruffled his hair again, just because I could. “Tell you what. You guys take a break, go into the kitchen, and see what’s in the fridge that you might like me to whip up. Deal?”

“Deal!” Finn chirped again, grabbing his mug and surging to his feet. “I need more coffee anyway.”

“I doubt that,” Silvio muttered, but he too got up, grabbed his own mug, and headed into the kitchen after Finn.

While the two of them argued about who was going to get the last cup of coffee, I headed over to the fireplace and stared at the framed drawings on the mantel of my mother’s and sister’s runes, the snowflake and the ivy vine, representing icy calm and elegance. I also reached out with my magic, listening to the stones that made up the fireplace and the surrounding walls. They murmured back to me, echoing my own anger, grief, and sadness that my family was gone, that they had been taken away from me so suddenly, so brutally, so cruelly.

I wondered how many times Bruce Porter had stood in front of his own mantel, staring at that doctored photo of him and Maria and thinking about the past. The ironic fact that I was doing more or less the same thing as a serial killer wasn’t lost on me.

In a way, I supposed that I was just like Porter, forever dwelling on the past, obsessed with it even, and still snared in all the consequences of so many people’s dark deeds, including my own. But my obsession was for learning the truth, for getting answers, and for finally making the people who’d murdered my family pay for their crimes.