Seizure(76)

“No fear, huh?”

Chance nodded. “No fear.”





CHARLESTON COUNTRY CLUB occupies the northern tip of James Island, just across the harbor from downtown.

Elegant and exclusive, the club provides its members with easy access to tennis courts, swimming pools, and eighteen manicured holes.

At ten o’clock the next morning, Kit dropped me at the elegant wood-and-stucco clubhouse.

I wore a strapless Nicole Miller cocktail dress. Mocha. Sleek and form fitting. And borrowed, of course.

By silent agreement, we’d avoided conversation the entire drive.

“Two hours?” Kit finger-tapped the wheel, anxious about last night’s bombshells.

“One,” I replied.

He nodded. “Have fun.”

I stumbled while stepping to the curb. I’d barely slept. Hiding Chance had frazzled my nerves. As had the prospect of a new encounter with the Tripod.

Taking a moment to gather myself, I repeated Chance’s advice in my head.

Stand your ground. Fight back. No fear.

Shoulders squared, I strode into the foyer.

Expensive Persian rugs covered a dark hardwood floor overhung by a massive crystal chandelier. Twin grand staircases curved upward along each wall.

A regency table held a flower-filled vase and a silver-framed placard announcing that brunch would be served outside by the putting green.

Standing next to the table was Rodney Brincefield.

Dear God. What was he doing here?

“Tory.” Brincefield smiled broadly. “What a pleasant surprise!”

“Hello.” Startled, I said nothing more.

“I didn’t know you frequented the club.” Brincefield wore a charcoal suit and black wingtip shoes. I was unsure if he was an employee, guest, or member.

“I’m here for the garden brunch,” I said. “For cotillion.”

“Wonderful. How goes the treasure hunt?” He lowered his voice. “Any clues?”

Flashbulb image. An antique red station wagon weaving through traffic, tracking the Virals to Morris Island.

I opted for directness. “Mr. Brincefield, have you been following me?”

“Following you?” The bright blue eyes bored into me. “Why on earth would I do that?”

“It’s just, I keep running into you.”

“I’ve been walking the same treads for decades.” Brincefield chuckled. “It’s you that recently appeared in my world.”

Fair point. I’d only seen Brincefield at places I’d never been before.

Maybe I was following him.

I didn’t notice Brincefield inching closer. When he next spoke, the snowy eyebrows nearly brushed mine.

“Have you found it?” he whispered. “Do you know the volume?”

I hopped backward. “What are you talking about?”

Footsteps sounded behind me. “Tory?”

I turned to see Jason bang into the room, a pair of wooden folding chairs tucked under each arm.

“Did you just get here?” Jason shifted his weight, searching for a comfortable grip. “Everyone’s out on the lawn. I got stuck hauling things again.”

“On my way.” I turned back to Brincefield. “Sorry, gotta run!”

I hurried to the rear doors. In the mirror, I saw Brincefield watch me exit.

Outside, I suppressed a shudder.

Had Brincefield been waiting for me? His last question had been intense, almost manic. What did he mean? Perhaps the old man wasn’t harmless after all.

Focus. You’re exposed.

I stepped behind a stand of trees just as Jason emerged. After glancing around, he lugged his payload over to a white pavilion.

Screened from view, I surveyed the scene.

Most of the cotillion crowd had arrived. Blue bloods milled, chatting, wearing their newest finery. Women in bright sundresses held tiny plates heaped with sliced cantaloupe, honeydew, strawberries, and cheese. Fake laughter floated on the air.

Impulsive decision: no more surprises.

If an attack was coming, I wanted all my powers in place.

SNAP.

The transformation came swiftly, leaving me trembling and gasping as usual. I held position, willing the burning in my limbs to cease.

My receptors kicked into high-definition.

Slipping on my shades, I stepped from the trees and joined the party.

The adults had congregated by buffet tables under the pavilion. My classmates strolled the putting green a few dozen yards away.

Jason spotted me and waved.

Swallowing my apprehension, I walked to his side.

“There you are.” His tie was loose, his top button undone. “You disappeared.”

“Bathroom break. Still on setup crew?”

“Indentured servitude. The geniuses only set out fifty chairs.”

Eyes hidden, I covertly searched for the Tripod. Nowhere in sight.

Then a deeply southern voice called Jason’s name.

“Again?” He groaned. “This woman is a grade-A dingbat. Back in a minute.”

Jason followed an elderly woman inside the clubhouse.

I was alone.

Determined to make the best of my situation, I mingled, hanging on the fringes of a few group conversations. No one spoke to me, but no one chased me away, either. Progress.