The Last of August (Charlotte Holmes #2)(45)

“I’m sorry.”

She slipped out from August’s hand and crossed to me. His eyes tracked her across the room. “I’m tired, Watson,” she said. “I’m working two cases at once, and they both concern my family. It’s not like anything I’ve taken on before. Milo’s stupid surety isn’t helping. I’m positive he’s missed something. I know who the culprits are. I just don’t know how they’ve done what they’ve done.”

“Don’t you usually reason from the facts?” I asked her. “Instead of assigning blame and working from there?”

Holmes shrugged, but I could tell I’d hurt her. “I’m not Sherlock Holmes. This isn’t a case study. My uncle is missing, and the only possible answer is that it’s the Moriartys behind it. One way or another, they’ve done this. Sorry, August.”

August grimaced.

“Is there any value in having Milo . . . remove Lucien?” I asked.

“And Hadrian?” she asked. “And Phillipa? And their bodyguards? Why do you think they haven’t taken us out directly? Why do you think they haven’t sent us Leander’s body via parcel mail? Put a bullet in my mother’s head?”

Rubbing my shoulder, I thought about it. What was the only worse thing than the confirmation of your greatest fear? “Because the uncertainty is worse.”

She spread her hands as if to say, There you have it. “Are you done berating me?”

“What about my ideas?”

“They have value,” she admitted. “Of course they do. Of course you do. What do you take me for? Some kind of machine? If I wanted a yes-man, don’t you think I’d find one that wanted to ‘yes’ me more often?”

I bit back a smile. “That’s fair.”

“Don’t you think,” she said, drawing closer, “that there’s some irony in someone taking the trouble to anonymously kidnap you? If everyone keeps insisting you’re unimportant, you have to ask yourself why.”

“I’m sorry about your mother,” I told her quietly.

“I am, too.” She considered me for a moment, eyes bright. “Should we divide up the work, then? You’ll call your father? I’m sure August wouldn’t mind doing some data mining in Milo’s systems, he was hired to do that sort of thing”—August shrugged—“and if you don’t mind, I’d like to spend more time with Milo’s security feeds. When I was younger, I was made to find my way through my own house, blindfolded. I know every room. This feed is missing some.”

“Was Milo trained that same way?” I asked, wondering why he’d skip surveillance, wondering why we were all apparently wandering around with our eyes covered.

“No,” she said absently. Her attention had drifted back to the broken screen. “He was always away in our father’s study. He speaks five languages, but I doubt he’s ever seen our basement. Shall we regroup in an hour?”

But when I reached the door, she cleared her throat. “Watson?”

“What?”

“You only—you kissed her?”

Her back was to me. “Yeah,” I said, wishing I could see her face.

“Will you see her again?”

“I don’t think so.”

Holmes bent her dark head over the tangle of wires on the desk. “That’s all,” she said finally, and when I left, August was at my heels.

“I’m going to call my dad,” I told him. “Can you give me a minute?”

“Do you two fight like that often?”

“No. Well . . . yes. Lately, I guess we fight like that a lot.” I shrugged. “I’m sorry you had to see it.”

“I don’t know how you two are still friends.”

“That’s kind of bizarre, coming from the aberrant Moriarty who can’t get mad at the girl who ruined his life.”

His eyes wandered over to the closed lab door. “Isn’t getting past it better than the alternative?”

“It depends what the alternative is.”

“Is there one? A sane one, I mean.” He sighed. “I don’t hate her. I’m not a terrible person.”

I watched him, the sad mask of his face, the dark clothes edged bright against the fluorescent-lit hallway. “You could be a decent person,” I told him, “and still not like her.”

“Then what am I left with?” His mouth twisted into a smile. “I’m her friend. And because I’m her friend, I’m going to go do some data mining for her. For free.”

“You’re hunting down art forgers,” I called after him as he set off down the hall. “You can be excited about it. I give you permission not to be a sad sack.”

“Sorry about your shoulder,” he said. “Just so you know.” And he was out of sight.

I wasn’t sure if he was just being very English, or if August had actually orchestrated that whole blindfolded joyride. Access to Milo’s cars? His team? Resources? I should be mad about this, I thought. He had a gun pointed at me by proxy. He told me to leave all this and go home for Christmas. He . . . well, he threatened to call my father.

No. I was crazy. He wouldn’t go that far just to prove a point. Just to get me to get safely home. Would he?