THIRTY-NINE

Archer and Leah had the house to themselves when they got back from the disastrous ICC visit. “Probably to ourselves,” he amended. “No telling where Auntie Em is. Her room. The basement. Dante’s Vestibule of Hell, which we also call the basement . . .”

“It’s so quiet,” Leah marveled. “Except for you talking.” She was surprised to find it made her uneasy. A Drake throng was many things, but dull wasn’t one of them.

“Contrary to what it might look like, they’ve all got lives outside of my dad’s case. Oh! Say! Speaking of ungrateful assholes, I’m so sorry you had to witness that—that whatever-it-was today.”

She took his hand and squeezed as they walked through the empty kitchen and down the hall to the bedroom. “Hardly your fault. All families fight.” She paused. “I’m pretty sure. According to my clients, anyway.”

He snorted. “That was a little more than a fight.”

“Granted, but . . . Oh, hell, I’m talking through my ass.”

“In your defense, it’s a wonderful ass.”

“Insatiable idiot,” she said fondly. “You know this is all new territory for me.”

“My uncle threatening to murder someone just to get out of our semiannual visits is new territory for everyone.”

Leah had to smile. “Fair enough. And poor Angela.”

That was something she hadn’t counted on: being fond of Archer’s cousin, who had held his lack of lives over his head like it was a shameful thing, and didn’t get around to apologizing for any of it until a few months ago. Who, it must be said, was controlling and, it must also be said, shrill, and stubborn, and volatile.

But those words described every single Drake in existence, and Leah had more than a few of those qualities herself. Angela, at least, was trying. And she never quit. Even when her uncle was being wrestled to the ground by a flurry of corrections officers and screaming about how much he loathed her visits, she stood her ground.

Which was more than could be said for the “adults”—the one who landed them in a ten-year mess, and the one who hid from that same ten-year mess—Dennis and Emma Drake.

It came down to roles, Leah decided. Self-assigned and otherwise. If Jack and Paul and Angela’s mother was a ghost, Angela was everyone’s big sister. Even Archer’s. Even hers.

“You know what’s odd?”

“Knowing you, darling, it could be anything.”

“Touché. There’s something poking at my brain and I don’t know why,” he admitted. “I was a little uneasy after our first visit, but I figured that was because I hadn’t seen Dad in years. But it’s worse now. I can’t shake the feeling that whatever-it-is, it’s right in front of us. We’re just so used to seeing it, we’re not noticing it. Or something. Hell. I don’t know.”

Leah had paused at the door to their shared bedroom and Archer absently reached out and rubbed her shoulders. A sucker for any kind of massage—she was a bit touch-starved, legacy of her odd upbringing and odder line of work—she let her head fall back and moaned, a sound that always elicited a Pavlovian response in her fiancé. But who wouldn’t make appreciative noises beneath Archer’s hands? The man was so skilled, he could have been a masseuse to the gods.

“What, Leah? Why’d you stop?”

“Just thinking ahhhhhh right there . . . mmmmmm . . . wondering when we should go back home. There doesn’t ummmmmm seem to be ahhhhh much more we cannnnnnnmmmm . . .”

“Do you mind if we stay ’til Friday? Two weeks chock full o’Drakes is more than enough to ask of anyone, never mind the mother of my mother-in-law.”

She groaned and it wasn’t at all Pavlovian, she sounded like a sleepy bear trapped in a well. “Argh, gah, don’t put it like that.” She shrugged so his hands dropped away. “Arrgghh.”

“Sorry.” Archer kissed the tender spot just behind her ear. “But y’know, if you set aside the horror and the years of psychological damage and the unprecedented new territory we’re stumbling through, it’s kind of funny.”

“No.”

“A teeny-weeny bit funny.”

“Not really, no.” She opened the door, stepped inside, then stopped short. The bed was neatly made and on her pillow was a small blue dessert plate, and resting atop the plate was a cream puff swan.

Archer’s eyes went big. “Whoa. He never makes those! He says swans are mean and pâte à choux is overrated. How come you rate so high? And yes, that’s petty jealousy you hear in my tone.”

“I have no idea,” she lied.

Archer was cautiously approaching it as if it was a real swan that would fly away if he startled it. “Leah, I’m not sure you understand the significance here.”

“Why don’t you try patronizing me? That’s bound to help me figure it out.”

“This is the Holy Grail of pastry! You know how many of those tiny, delicious-yet-mean swan puffs he’s made me in twenty-some years?”

“Archer, Jack’s only been alive for—”

“Two! You’re here a week and you already have one? The world just doesn’t make sense anymore!”

“So this would be the worst part of the trip, then?”

“Yes! We have a new winner. Dammit.”

She walked to her side of the bed and studied it: light golden brown with pastry cream nestled beneath the wings and a beautifully arched neck. And best of all . . .

She picked up the plate and sniffed her swan, then showed it to Archer. “It’s not coffee flavored.”

“Which is making you smile because . . . ?”

“Because Jack’s trying new things. That’s all. And if you stop pouting, I’ll share it with you.”

“Okay. You should eat the head first—chomp!” Archer mimed savagely decapitating a bird shaped from pastry. “It’s deeply satisfying.”

“You can devour the head.”

“I love you so much right now.”

“As you should.”