The Beast
“Can you give me two seconds in my office?”
When the girl nodded, Mary rushed upstairs. Marissa wasn’t at her desk, so Mary headed across the hall to send a quick e-mail to all the staff.
She didn’t get that far. At least, not immediately.
There was a cardboard box on her desk, one that was about the size of a shoe box, just more square instead of rectangular. An envelope was on top of it, although she knew what was inside before reading anything.
The note was short, but kind. Mary read it twice, and then carefully lifted the lid. Inside, there was a simple brass urn.
A trusted nurse of Havers’s had dropped off Bitty’s mother’s ashes at nightfall, because the female had wanted to spare Bitty any return trip to the clinic. It had been a very kind gesture; the sort of thing that made you blink quick and have to take a couple of deep breaths.
Shaking herself back to attention, Mary went around and signed in at her computer, sent the e-mail, and then hustled back downstairs. Bitty was on the sofa once again, waiting patiently, but she had put her coat on.
“Ready?” Mary asked.
As the girl got to her feet once more, Mary decided to wait to talk about the delivery. The child deserved an easy trip out for ice cream—
“Did you see what was on your desk?” Bitty looked up. “The box?”
“Ah . . . yes. I did.”
“It’s my mother’s ashes.”
“Yes. There was a note.”
Bitty dropped her eyes to the floor. “A nice female brought them. I was down here waiting already, so I took them. I put them up there because I wasn’t sure what I was supposed to do.”
“Do you want the urn in your room?”
“I don’t know.”
“Okay. You don’t have to decide anything now.”
“I want to save them. You know . . .”
For your uncle, Mary filled in, in her head.
“For my uncle,” Bitty concluded. “But I wasn’t sure I’d be able to sleep with them upstairs. I mean . . . it’s her. But not.”
“It’s perfectly all right for you to think about it. And change your mind. They’re safe in my office. I’ll leave them right on my desk. Nothing will happen to them.”
“Okay.”
There was a pause. “Are you ready to go now?”
“Yes, please.”
Mary let out an exhale. “Good. I’m glad. Come on.”
Bitty headed for the door, but then stopped halfway there. “Ms. Luce?”
“Yes?”
Those brown eyes flicked up for a split second and then returned to the floor. “Thank you very much.”
All Mary could do was blink as Bitty kept on going over to the exit.
“You’re very welcome,” Mary said in a husky voice.
* * *
Standing next to his car, Rhage found himself tucking in his black shirt under his jacket—or rather, re-tucking the thing. Then he ran his fingers through his hair. Man, he needed to get the stuff cut. It was like a blond rug from the seventies, all shagged out.
At least the close shave he’d given himself before leaving the mansion was holding tough. And he was clean. He’d even washed behind his ears and in between his toes.
As the door to Safe Place opened and the females appeared between the jambs, he raised a hand, and got two raised back at him, one from each. Then Mary and Bitty were in front of him, the little girl staring up at him as if he might have been bigger than she remembered. Or blonder. Or maybe weirder-looking. Or something.
Who the hell knew.
“Hi,” he said, opening the car door for her. “You ready?”
“Yes.” Bitty scooted in. “Thank you.”
“Do you know what flavor you’re going for?”
“Vanilla?”
Frowning, he put the seat back into position and helped his Mary in. “Huh. Well. That’s good.”
When he was behind the wheel, he wrenched around. “You know, vanilla is great. It’s a good traditional choice. But they’ll let you try some of their other flavors before you pick. You might want to give that a shot—or stick with vanilla. Whatever works.”
“What kinds of flavors are there?”
“Oh, my God, sooooo many.”
He punched the clutch, threw the gearshift into first, but stopped himself before he nailed the accelerator. There was no time constraint here, and he didn’t want to paint-mixer the poor kid.
“Hey, is your seat belt on?” he asked, glancing up into the rearview.
“I’m sorry.” Bitty scrambled around, pulling the strap into place across her torso. “I didn’t think.”
Rhage reached up and put the light on. “Here.”
Click. “Thank you.”
Easing them out from the curb, he kept to the speed limit. And the traffic laws. And glared at an SUV who swerved out in front of them.
Bessie’s Best Ice Cream Parlor was painted bright pink on the outside, and milk-cow black-and-white on the inside. With pink tables and chairs, fifties music piped in from the speakers, and a waitstaff that had poodle skirts for the girls and soda-jerk shirts and pants for the guys, Rhage had always been impressed by how close to right they got the Elvis, goin’-to-the-hop vibe.
As someone who had eaten ice cream in 1950, he remembered firsthand what things had looked like, thank you very much.
And yup, he had chosen the right joint.
Bitty was enthralled by the place, her big eyes roaming around as if she had never seen anything like it—which was, sadly, no doubt the truth. Fortunately, there were only a few human customers: a couple who was over sixty in the corner, a father with three kids in the middle at one of the larger tables, and a pair of teenage girls who were taking selfies with their motor oil–glossed lips pursed out and their ice cream melting off to the side in little paper cups.