An hour later all thoughts of Milo’s secrets are completely erased from my mind. The palatial home I grew up in looms in front of me like a nightmare. Its pearly walls and manicured lawns do nothing to change that impression. Coming home should feel like…well, coming home, but it doesn’t. Not for me. This place stopped being my home the night my dad died. After that it was just a building I wasn’t really welcome in. Only that oh-so-breakable bond of blood kept me there for as long as it did.
It is sucking me back now, and I’m letting it.
“We can turn back,” Milo says.
“No. I’ve got to do this.”
Nothing will change my mind and he knows it, so he approaches the gate and punches in the key code I gave him. I’m mildly surprised when the gates swing open. I had honestly worried that she might have changed the code after kicking me out, but that would require notifying the dozens of people who used the code on a regular basis. It would have been terribly inconvenient for my mom. And she doesn’t do inconvenient. Leaving me while I was unconscious and sending some toady to drop off my bags, that was easy.
Milo’s hands are tight on the steering wheel as we roll along the driveway and turn into the spacious parking area in front of the entrance. An expanse of marble steps draws his eyes up to the overly-large, oak double doors at the top of the staircase. He stops right at the base of the steps and cuts the engine. All of the sound seems to have been sucked out of the world, leaving only my fear and anger to fill its absence.
My sneakers make a soft tapping noise as I step out of the car. I can hear Milo take a deep breath and then follow my lead. He’s pretending this doesn’t freak him out, but he’s not as good at hiding things as me. Worry clings to his skin worse than the cold, damp air left after the snowstorm last night.
Walking around the car to meet me, Milo waits for me to lead the way. Together we approach the imposing doors. It feels odd to ring the doorbell of my own house. Even stranger is watching the door open to find our middle-aged butler, Manuel, staring at me. I have never been on this side of the door from him before. He holds his calm demeanor for all of two seconds before breaking into a leathery grin.
“Miss Libby, you’re home! We have all missed you very much,” he exclaims in his thickly accented English.
I barely have time to open my mouth before he’s wrapping me up in one of his bear hugs. When I was little I would run at him so he could grab me out of the air and swing me in a big circle before pulling me into his arms for a hug. He thinks I’m coming home for good. I don’t have the heart to tell him this is very likely the last time I will ever see him.
When he finally releases me I step back just far enough that he can’t grab me again. “Manuel, I’ve missed you too. How have you been?”
“Same as always,” he says with a wave of his hand. “Now who is this with you, Miss Libby? Not Lance, that’s for sure.”
“No, sir,” Milo says emphatically. “I’m Milo Hanover.”
“It is a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Hanover. Have you been taking care of my Miss Libby for me while she’s been away?”
Milo laughs. “I’ve been trying to.”
Chuckling at his response, Manuel claps him on the shoulder. “Yes, I can understand that. Miss Libby has always been a little difficult to watch over. She broke three different bones in nine months. Did she ever tell you that? I never imagined one child could have so many accidents until I met Miss Libby.”
“I’d love to hear all about them,” Milo says, relaxing a little.
“Another time, perhaps,” I interrupt. “Manuel, I need to speak to my mother.”
He shakes off his pleasure at seeing me and tries to return to his uptight butler mannerisms. He doesn’t do a very good job. “Yes, come in. I can’t believe I made you stand on the doorstep like a salesman. Not that you even need to ask, Miss Libby. It’s your own home, after all. Your mother will be so pleased that you’ve decided to come home. All the staff has been very concerned about you since you left.”
I stop walking and shake my head in disbelief. “Manuel, what did my mom tell you about me not being at home?”
“Mrs. Sparks said that you and she had a disagreement and you decided you needed some space. I assumed you were staying with a friend until whatever you fought about was resolved.” His cheerful expression slowly turns into a deep grimace as he realizes that my mother was lying to him. “That’s not what happened, is it?”
“No, Manuel, she kicked me out. She is not going to be happy to see me here, but I need to talk to her anyway.”
“But why would Mrs. Sparks kick you out of the house, Miss Libby?” he asks.
Sadness replaces my irritation. Manuel always did spend too much time watching telenovellas and not enough time watching the news. “She didn’t tell you about what happened at my Inquest?”
“No, Miss Libby. Mrs. Spark doesn’t discuss such things with me like your father did.”
Manuel pretends to have nothing in his head but the orders my mom gives him, but I know that he was an incredibly gifted artist back in Mexico. He is intelligent and observant, almost to a fault. He caught me sneaking out more times than I can count in the years after my dad died, but he never once told on me. How can he not know about my Inquest? Manuel was one of the few good things about living at home. I won’t lie to him.
I push the sleeve of my sweater up and brace myself for his rejection. The ebony colored diktats banding my wrist seem to pulse as I bare them. Seconds pass in silence. The fear and hatred I expect never comes. Only confusion does.
“I don’t understand, Miss Libby. Your mother kicked you out for being the Destroyer? I already knew about that. I heard about it that same night. It was all the other servants in the house could talk about for days. I expected your mother to be upset, but I didn’t think she would kick you out.”
“Why not? She’s never been one for compassion or mercy.”
“But, Miss Libby, you are her daughter. She shouldn’t have turned her back on you because of some twist of fate. You are her blood,” Manuel says.
“You should know by now how little that matters to her,” I say.
“You are your father’s daughter. I know Mrs. Sparks has many faults, but she did love your father. It kept her from abandoning you completely after his death. I thought it would be enough this time as well.”
I shake my head. “Not this time.”
Manuel takes my hands and squeezes them as if he could apologize to me for my mother’s actions. If only he knew the whole of it. Abandoning her only child was among the least of her sins. At least Manuel doesn’t seem fazed by my revelation. It is wonderful, and hopeful, to know that he greeted me so warmly knowing full well who I am. If only hormone-driven young men and butlers ruled the world.
“Manuel, I really do need to speak to my mother. Is she here?”
He nods, slow and unhappy. “Perhaps you shouldn’t speak to her, Miss Libby. Your mother can be a…”
Several choice words spring to my mind in the brief second he pauses.
“…She can be a vengeful woman if the mood suits her. And she has been in varying types of unpleasant moods lately,” Manuel finishes.
“When isn’t she in an unpleasant mood? I’ll take my chances. Where is she?”
He hesitates, but it seems to be against his nature to ignore a question. “I believe she is still in her quarters, Miss Libby.”
“Well, it appears you are wrong once again, Manuel.” My mother’s frigid voice sends an involuntary chill down my spine.
Chapter 22
Tricks