Oblivion (Nevermore #3)

Oblivion (Nevermore #3) Page 41

“Her?” He squinted at Isobel, his upper lip twitching into a sneer. “She’s a kid.”

“Who needs an after-school job,” Darcy replied.

Isobel kept quiet, eyes flitting between the two as she waited to see if Darcy’s fib would convince him.

“Except it’s not after school.” Mr. Nethers checked his wristwatch. “Not nearly.”

Darcy took the door from him. “I found the aspirin,” she said. “I packed it with your lunch in the kitchen. You’d better take it with you, though, or else you might as well go ahead and take the rest of the day off.”

“I can’t afford to take the rest of the day off,” he snapped, irritably stripping his watch from his wrist. “Especially not since, apparently, we’re hiring a housekeeper.” He broke away, adjusting the watch as he headed toward the back hall. “And if you’ve got time to post a want ad,” he called as he went, “then you’ve got time to post a sale ad for that damn car.”

“It’s not mine to post,” Darcy said, her voice flat, resigned.

“Post the car, Darcy.”

With that, Mr. Nethers swept from the room, disappearing down the hall.

Isobel knew they had to be arguing over the Cougar, confirming her suspicions that Bruce had indeed bequeathed the car to Varen.

“Please come inside,” Darcy said, stepping back, making room for Isobel to enter. “You must be freezing out there without a coat.”

Folding her arms against shivers that had nothing to do with the cold, Isobel stared past the woman, into the mouthlike doorway. Soft yellow light bathed the foyer within.

“He’ll leave in just a minute,” Darcy said, and the tremble in her voice made Isobel wonder what she was afraid of. Was it that her husband would find out Isobel’s visit pertained to his missing son? Or maybe that Isobel would run off like she had that morning at the fountain, taking all the answers with her?

“It’s . . . not him,” Isobel said.

Varen’s father might be imposing, and the prospect of invoking his anger had terrified her once, but she’d faced worse—far worse—since she’d first glimpsed him through that closet door.

“He’ll suspect something if we stand at the door like this,” Darcy warned, her breath puffing in a small cloud of white.

Isobel vacillated for half a beat longer. Then she stepped into the house.

Her gut tightened with a residual surge of fear as she ventured into the foyer, a series of images flickering through her memory, electrocuting her with the past. The free-floating chandelier. The sheet-covered furniture. The dilapidated stairs. Everything reversed. And the painting on the wall, the one of the storm-tossed—

At the sound of the door clicking shut behind her, Isobel yelped and spun around.

Darcy froze, eyes full of alarm.

“The ship,” Isobel breathed, pressing a hand to her collar and wrapping the hamsa in her fist. “It’s gone.”

“Excuse me?” Darcy asked, head tilting.

Isobel pointed at the painting, which had shown only white-capped waves and angry black clouds. Except now the ship had returned.

Lowering her arm, Isobel frowned at the painting. She let go of the charm.

While she’d been in the dreamworld, fighting with Reynolds, she’d seen the same painting come to life. Animated seas had devoured the vessel whole.

“What time is it?” she asked Darcy, the question all but leaping out of her mouth.

“Um, around one. I think.”

“Do you have a watch?” she asked, her anxiety building. “Or a clock?”

Darcy bit her bottom lip, as though refraining from voicing a question. She pointed to the ceiling. “Upstairs. In the office.”

Turning, she crossed to the steps.

Isobel deliberated, shifting from foot to foot. Then she followed.

As she grabbed the banister, she took a moment to will its varnished surface to transform into a boa constrictor. The banister did not respond to her silent command, but this provided less comfort than she’d been hoping for. Especially since, in her periphery, she thought she’d seen someone standing in the parlor.

Could it be that her mind, punch-drunk from the terrors of the other side, had become conditioned to anticipate horrors at every turn?

No. She was awake. And now—now it was time to get a grip.

Isobel reached the second floor just as Darcy opened the closest of several doors. Whisking past her, Isobel entered a spacious office.

A pair of cream curtains flanked the room’s lone window. Papers, ledgers, and notebooks littered the surface of an enormous oak desk.