“So you said before you flew,” Owen reminded him.
“The curtains weren’t moving. The room’s full of wind, but the curtains don’t move?”
Frowning, Owen sat. “You’re right. You’re right about that.”
“Illusions. Trickery.”
“The bloody nose and the lump on your head aren’t illusions.”
“No.” Because he thought they could both use it, he rose, put his arms around Sonya. “But she couldn’t, or wouldn’t, come past the door. Like the bird that vanished a few feet out of the window.”
He kissed her forehead. “We’ll figure it out.”
“Any way we can figure it out with food?” Owen wondered.
“Damn it! I forgot to get anything out for dinner.”
“You could do that thing you did last time. With the vodka and the pasta. I want to see how you do it.”
“I could do that.”
“We’re about finished upstairs. We can do the basement tomorrow. Can you manage that?” Trey asked Owen.
“After what just happened? You couldn’t keep me out of it.”
“No more side trips while the little ladies are tucked away.”
He gave Sonya a solemn nod. “No, ma’am.”
“You’re welcome to stay if you like. God knows we have enough bedrooms—discounting that wing.”
“I don’t have any gear, but … I’ve never spent the night in the manor. I’ve got some work clothes in the truck. Got a spare toothbrush?”
“And plenty of them. Pick a room.”
“I’ll do that. What do you all do about breakfast?”
“That’s strictly fend for yourself,” Cleo told him. Firmly.
“Even on Sunday?”
“Even. And I’m down to my last Toaster Strudel, so don’t even think about it.”
“The apple ones with the white stuff on the top?”
“Don’t even think about it.”
With a shrug, he opened the refrigerator, checked some cabinets. “I’ll make breakfast.”
“While we’re taking a moment, Trey says you work out, lift weights, and such?”
He gave Sonya a shrug. “Sure. Yeah, you’ve got that gym downstairs. Can I use that?”
“Help yourself. And that brings me to a project I’m working on, a possible job, for Ryder Sports.”
“Okay.”
“I need photos, which Trey’s mother is going to provide.”
“She’s good at it.”
“She is. I want one of you, maybe doing the classic biceps curl.”
“Me? Why?”
To help the cause, Cleo reached over, tested his biceps. “Oooh.” She batted her lashes. “That’s why, stud.”
When he laughed, Sonya went in for the kill. “It’s a big job, and I’ve got one shot at it. I want to show ordinary people—not professional models—using Ryder equipment in their daily lives. You do biceps curls, so, that’s you. Cleo’s going to represent yoga. Trey’s baseball.”
He laughed again. “She got you? First the lawyer shot, now this? He hates having his picture taken.”
“Hate’s a strong word,” Trey said.
“But…” Lashes batting again, Cleo ran a hand down Trey’s cheek. “So handsome.”
“Yeah, she’s got you. Me? I’m fine with it. Come on, Jones, let’s go pick out our bunk for the night. Don’t start that vodka thing without me,” he told Cleo. “I want to watch.”
“An interesting man, your friend.”
Trey sent Cleo his slow smile. “He’s many-layered. Like Shrek.”
Chapter Twenty-seven
As Trey walked toward the kitchen in the morning, he smelled bacon and coffee. The duet of siren calls.
Owen, the sleeves of an ancient denim shirt rolled up, the front open over an equally ancient T-shirt, whipped something in a bowl.
“Dogs beat you down. They’re having a meeting outside.”
Nodding, Trey headed straight to the coffee.
“Heard the clock,” Owen added. “Three in the a.m.”
“Yeah. Sonya slept through it. And the music after.”
“I heard somebody crying, it sounded like down the hall from the library. I walked over, then downstairs. Nothing and nobody there. Except. You know I’ve got twenty-twenty, but when I walked into the music room, just for a second, I didn’t see rings on either portrait. Wedding rings. Then I did.”