Deviation (Clone Chronicles #2)(15)

“Entertained how?” I’ve got him. And whoever is listening. I hope.

My purr is back. Low and full-on sultry. “Tell you what. I’m going to wait for you right here in my bedroom wearing, well, not much, and you’re going to figure out the answer to your own question while you drive.”

“Raven, you’re being—”

“Don’t disappoint me, Obadiah. If you do, we can’t be friends anymore and that would be a shame. I need you. Twenty minutes.”

I hope he understands that’s the honest part of the call. I don’t wait to find out before I hang up.

I have twenty minutes.

I saw a show once that depicted rituals and rain dances performed by indigenous tribes throughout various African countries. Some used animal sacrifices, many danced and swayed around fires, all of them used drums. Heavy on the bass, no treble or strings to accompany, and the pounding was low and constant. Something that seemed to work directly into the veins of the men and women swaying and dancing and staring into the flames, willing the answers to whatever questions they asked.

My chest feels like a ritual drum now. Beating and burning its way into my veins. I hope it carries answers too.

I change into something with more lace than fabric and strut around my bedroom. I turn my hip this way and that, pretending to study myself in the full-length mirror. I toss my hair, reapply lip gloss. This promiscuous side of Raven Rogen wasn’t nearly as quick a study as Titus may have liked but much of it is built into the female psyche; it isn’t hard to figure out.

When I’ve sufficiently paraded, I cut the lights. Please do not let the infrared be working yet.

In the darkness, I stuff my pillows into my bedcovers, hit play on the sexiest jazz album Raven owns—there were several choices—and creep into the hallway. I breathe a prayer to whatever god exists for soulless creations that Linc has gone home for the day. He is the only one in the entire house I don’t want to run into. Well, next to Titus, of course.

No one meets me as I dart down the darkened hall toward my destination. I hope they’re all glued to the video monitors trained on the entrance. I hope Obadiah understands.

Titus’s study is unguarded and empty.

I have no idea if I’m right about what I’ll find inside. But I have nowhere else to look.

The smell of stale cigars hangs in the air. Through the shadows, I spot a large desk along the wall I’m pressed against. Then I click the door shut behind me and I see nothing beyond my own hand in front of my face. I take a tentative step forward, blinking ferociously and forcing my eyes to adjust double time. In the back of the room are two large chairs. I know they’re upholstered in brown leather from my hallway spying. They’re twisted sideways and, in the deep darkness, it’s impossible to tell if they’re empty or if Titus somehow anticipated me and even now sits in the dark, waiting for my frail attempt to thwart him.

I take another step. My breath catches. I swallow the lump. My ritualistic heartbeat pounds in my chest. I reach the first chair and keep going, sliding around its edge until I touch the floor lamp beside it. My foot finds the switch. I step on it and soft yellow light floods the space.

The chairs are empty. I breathe a little.

Ten minutes.

I go back to the desk. There’s a case next it with glass doors and a delicate but secure lock embedded into the front. Sitting inside, plain as day with no room left to wonder if I’ve guessed correctly, is a small black device like the one I saw Linc using. Like the one the guard at dinner held. But this one’s different from theirs. This is the one I’m going to steal.

Nine minutes.

I dig through desk drawers but there’s no key. I peer at the lock, trying to guess what size the key would be. Where he would keep it. I don’t think he carries it on him. He isn’t the type for paranoia or worry of that sort. Titus Rogen is nothing if not completely confident in the utter fear and respect his men have for his house and its contents. His ego is far too big to consider someone might be dumb enough to rob him.

With that thought in mind, half-convinced it’s a wasted effort, I reach out and lift up on the delicate metal handle. It engages with a soft click and the cabinet door swings open. His weakness is thinking he has no weakness.

So gingerly I have to remind myself not to drop it, I take the device from the shelf. I half-expect some alarm to sound the moment I take it in my hand, but the silence remains. With a swing of my arm and flick of my wrist, it’s in my robe pocket.

Six minutes.

I inspect the remaining contents of the case.

Cash. Credit cards. Ironically, a set of keys. My eyes land on a framed picture. It’s off to the side, laying flat instead of displayed upright. I almost pass it by. But the fact that it’s been closed up in this cabinet must mean something. I look closer and my breath hitches. Underneath the glass and a fine layer of dust is a photograph of a woman. She is slender and beautiful with long blonde hair and bright blue eyes. She is achingly lovely in her delicate dress and tragic, hollow-eyed smile. And she looks so much like me that it’s alarming.

Did Titus use this woman to create my physical features?

She’s clearly older than me. Closer to Josephine’s age. I have no idea what it means, and although I want to take it and find out, I don’t dare. I am careful not to touch any of it. Titus’s weakness might be his own ego but I have no doubt of his strengths. Details. Titus is all about the details.