Midnight Hour

  “You aren’t able to use your arm.”

  “I can move it some.” Miranda showed her how she could reach up to her shoulder with the cast on.

  “Yeah but…”

  “You scared?” she taunted, knowing it would convince the vamp.

  “Don’t hurt yourself. And if you do, you can’t cry.”

  Miranda turned, remembering the instructions. “I’m ready.”

  She felt Della approaching. Her arm went around Miranda’s neck in a fake chokehold. Miranda caught Della’s forearm with her right hand, bent slightly over, and gave it all she had.

  It happened fast. Miranda gasped when Della went flying. High, like thirty-feet high. A squeal left Miranda’s lips, and she worried Della would get hurt when she landed.

  Not to worry.

  Della came down on the balls of her feet. Then Miranda realized how stupid she was. She hadn’t done that. Della had. “Not funny,” she muttered.

  Then she noticed Della’s wide dark eyes filled with serious shock. “Holy crap cakes!” the vamp yelled. “Am I a good teacher or what?”

  Miranda stood there, letting it soak in. If she could throw a reborn vampire into the air, think what she could do to her sister’s kidnappers.

  In that moment, Miranda resolved to do just that … go after the kidnappers. And an instinct—or premonition—washed over her confirming she would do just that. Somehow, someway, she was going to save Tabitha.

  * * *

  Miranda waited in the conference room at the back of the school’s office as Holiday met her parents in the front. Ms. Wales and Burnett sat at the other end of the table.

  Nerves buzzed around Miranda’s stomach like bees on a witch hunt. And they’d found their witch.

  Her palms sweated, her arm under her cast sweated. She had boob sweat. She hated boob sweat.

  Footsteps came down the hall announcing the disaster about to happen. Miranda stood and met her parents’ confused gazes.

  “What’s going on?” her father asked. “Did Anthony wake up?”

  Burnett had informed him about last night’s finding. “No, not yet.”

  “Let’s sit down and I’ll explain,” Holiday said.

  Holiday and Burnett had concluded that Miranda should tell her parents everything. About the tattoos, the whole mystic connection, and the real reason she wanted them to sign a consent form to get her blood drawn. Well, not everything. Not about the fact that she’d thrown Della about thirty feet in the air. Not once, but five times. Holiday and Burnett didn’t know about that.

  Miranda had sworn Della to secrecy. The vamp didn’t like it, but Miranda had pulled every girlfriend card she had, pointed out every favor she’d done, every blood donation she’d made. Della relented, with one condition. They tell Kylie. They had, and Miranda had to pull a few more girlfriend cards.

  Miranda’s mom dashed over to hug her. Sitting beside Miranda, she took her hand, squeezed, and leaned close. “We’ll talk in a few minutes. I love you. And I’m sorry.”

  “I love you, too,” Miranda said and she did. She might have said it with more conviction if she wasn’t plum terrified about what was about to go down.

  Once settled in, both her parents started eyeing Ms. Wales as if wondering why a stranger had been asked to join them.

  Holiday, positioned at the head of the table, sat silently as if now trying to figure out where to begin.

  Holiday readjusted in her chair and started the conversation by introducing Ms. Wales—by name, not by purpose for her attendance—then she glanced at Miranda’s father. “The reason Miranda asked about the family tree is that we suspect that Ms. Wales may be a distant relative of yours.”

  “Why would you think that?” her mother asked.

  “Why, the tattoo, of course,” Ms. Wales said.

  “What tattoo?” Her mom’s tightened eyes shot to Miranda. “Tell me you didn’t get a tattoo, young lady? You know how I feel about them.”

  Yup. Miranda knew. Another reason she didn’t think this was a good idea. “I didn’t. It just…” She glanced at Holiday for help.

  “Miranda didn’t get a tattoo,” Holiday spoke up. “We’re getting ahead of ourselves. Let me continue.”

  Holiday explained about the tattoo Miranda had gotten from the fortune reader.

  “Why didn’t you tell us this?” her mom asked.

  Caught in her mom’s gaze, Miranda blurted out. “It went away. I thought it would stay away.”

  “Where is it?” Her mom eyed Miranda. “I want to see it.”

  “It’s not here now,” Miranda said.

  “So you don’t have it anymore?” Her mom looked puzzled.

  “It comes and goes,” Miranda said.

  “Wait,” her father finally spoke up. “What does this tattoo have to do with Ms. Wales being a relative?”

  Her mom looked at Holiday for an answer.

  Ms. Wales pipped up. “Let me show you.”

  Miranda nearly freaked thinking the woman was about to disrobe down to her leopard skinned skivvies again. Instead, she pulled something out of her large brown manila envelope.

  She pushed something across the table to Miranda’s father. “Here is the image of your daughter’s tattoo. Here is mine.”

  He looked at it. Her mom did the same then looked at Miranda. “It’s on your arm? High or low? Can it be covered up with a short sleeve?”

  Miranda almost moaned at how insignificant her mother’s concerns were.

  “Dare I say,” Ms. Wales spoke up, “that the tattoo’s location isn’t the point, Mrs. Evans.”

  Evans! Oh, mother crackers! Miranda knew that wasn’t going to go over well.

  Holiday recognized disaster as well. “Kane. They go by Kane.”

  Fire lit in her mother’s eyes and her pinky twitched.

  “Odd,” the old woman said, either blind to Miranda’s mom’s glare, or choosing not to see it.

  Holiday opened her mouth to speak again and was cut off by Ms. Wales. “We didn’t even consider we might be related until Holiday pointed out that we are also both dyslexic.”

  Her mom shook her head. “What? Are you aware how many people suffer from this affliction?”

  “‘Suffer’ is a strong word, don’t you think?” The woman looked at Miranda.

  Miranda literally sank into her chair. Burnett did the same.

  “Please,” Holiday said. “Can I explain—”

  “Oh, dear,” Ms. Wales said. “I’ve got this. You see, Mr. Evans, the moment I heard the name Evans I knew we were related.”

  Her father put his hand on top of her mom’s and spoke up. “I brought the family tree with me. Miranda requested it. What was the family name?”

  Holiday stood up. “I really don’t think—”

  Ms. Wales piped up again. “You won’t find it there,” Ms. Wales said. “Your great great grandfather forced himself on my ancestor.”

  “What?” Miranda’s mom asked.

  Miranda sank deeper in her chair.

  “I have the proof. Here’s an article of her execution. She killed the bugger. His name is here.” She pulled the article back and began to read. “Mildred Bradley was hanged to death, accused of striking Rudolf Evans, whom she accused of sexual assault, forty-six times with an ax.”

  Everyone sat there speechless then.

  “Wait,” her father said. “Are you saying that my great, great grandfather raped your great, great, grandmother then she killed him?”

  “See,” Ms. Wales said to Holiday. “I told you I could explain this.”

  Chapter Thirty-one

  Miranda held her breath. The explosion she predicted in the room was going to be far worse than the one at the drug house.

  Ms. Wales looked back at Miranda’s father. “It’s all right here.” She pushed the article back over.

  Miranda’s butt slipped lower in her chair.

  When a cloud of befuddlement settled around them, Ms. Wales spoke up again. “Oh dear, don’t misu
nderstand. I hold you at no fault. You cannot help it if your ancestor was a bloody bastard.”

  “That’s it.” Burnett stood up. “I really think we should call it a day.”

  “No.” Her father started flipping pages, looking at his own documents. “I remember…” He stopped. Read. Then looked up. “I have a copy of the same newspaper clipping.”

  Burnett sat back down but looked worried. Miranda shared his concern.

  “We don’t know if the accusation is true,” her mom spoke up.

  “Which is why I’ve asked Miranda to do a blood test,” Ms. Wales said. “I had mine drawn at the FRU agency. Thanks to Mr. James, here.”

  Her father shot out of his chair so fast his chair hit the floor. He directed his comments to Burnett. “This is ludicrous. My daughter is kidnapped, you bring me in here to talk about a distant relative?”

  Burnett stood up to explain, but once again, Ms. Wales, with her English-accented, commanding voice, intervened. “Please calm down, Mr. Evans. As far-fetched as it may sound, our relations may have something to do with your daughter’s abduction.”

  Burnett nodded. Her father yanked his chair up and dropped back down. Holiday finished the story. No one interrupted for a good five minutes.

  Until … “What!” her mom asked, smiling. “Are you saying my daughter is mystic?”

  “No,” Holiday said. “I’m saying that Ms. Wales’s mother and grandmother were mystic. I’m saying that Ms. Wales’s grandmother was and Ms. Wales is dyslexic like Miranda. And then there’s the tattoo. It may or may not have anything to do with being mystic.”

  “But are there any signs that it may be true?” Her mom directed that question to Miranda.

  “A few.” Miranda explained about Perry hearing her voice and she his, and about Tabitha’s text. While talking about hearing things, Miranda started hearing things again. Not just things. But the sound of cascading water. Shit!

  A short time later, Ms. Wales announced she had to get back to Houston. Her mom went to the restroom, Burnett walked out with her father to stretch their legs.

  Holiday let go of a deep sigh and rested back in the chair. “That went tons better than I expected.”

  * * *

  Miranda and her mom walked out to the front porch of the office to have their “talk.” Holiday went to check in on Hannah and the baby. Burnett and her father sat in Holiday’s office to discuss the case.

  Miranda’s nerves hadn’t calmed down from the meeting they’d just had, and now she was having another one.

  Yes, she wanted to clear the air with her mom.

  Yes, she loved her with all her heart.

  Yes, she wanted to just run back to her bed and cover her head.

  She couldn’t.

  Instead, she mentally reached down and yanked up her big-girl panties so hard she got a wedgie. Then she dropped down in one of the rocking chairs and prepared herself for yet another difficult talk.

  The sound of rushing water in her ears made this hard. The devastating feeling she got every time she thought about Tabitha, made it harder. Tears started welling up in her eyes. She blinked them away.

  Her mom scooted the second chair closer to the one Miranda occupied and sat down. Then she reached for Miranda’s hand.

  “Aren’t you the least bit excited about being a mystic witch?”

  Several choice replies danced on her tongue. She swallowed the more offensive ones. “Right now I don’t give a son of a monkey spank about being mystic.” She wasn’t sure what it meant. She’d probably heard it from Della, but it felt appropriate.

  Her mom’s eyes widened. “Oh, I shouldn’t have … I’m sorry. I know you’re worried about Tabitha. I am, too.”

  Miranda looked at her mom, her anger too close to the surface. “You don’t even like her.”

  Her mom exhaled. “I don’t dislike Tabitha.” The tears in her mother’s eyes caught Miranda’s attention. She’d seen her father cry more than she had her mom. And her mom wasn’t one to fake anything. So those tears were … real.

  Her mom blinked. Tears fell. “After our argument, I went to see a therapist.”

  “You did?” Just like her mom didn’t cry, she wasn’t the type to go talk to therapists. That would imply she had problems. And her mom, of course, was perfect. Just ask her.

  Her mom inhaled. “What you said…”

  Guilt rose above Miranda’s anger. “I was wrong to say…”

  “No. I needed to hear it. I’ve been terrible since … since you learned the truth and Tabitha came into your life.” Fresh tears filled her eyes. “No, I’ve been terrible long before that, since I found out about Mary Esther and her pregnancy. I didn’t know your father was married, Miranda. But I was pretty sure there was another woman. His pager went off way too much. And he’d never make a call in front of me. I let … things happen quicker because … I thought he’d forget about whomever it was paging him if we slept together.”

  She sat up straighter. “When he told me he was married, I was meeting him to tell him that I was pregnant. He told me about his wife and her pregnancy. I told him I never wanted to see him again. I left.”

  She inhaled then continued, “He came to see me the next week. He told me his marriage was basically over and that … he loved me. But he couldn’t divorce her because of his inheritance and because of Ireland’s no-divorce rules. He said he wanted to be with me and our child, but he couldn’t turn his back on Mary Esther or their child. He swore he’d never touch her as a wife again. He offered to change his name, and I could take that name and we’d live as husband and wife. We could even say we were married.”

  Her voice shook. “I accepted it because I loved him and I wanted you to know your father. But every time he left to go to Ireland, every time I knew he was with Mary Esther and Tabitha, I was petrified that he would decide that he loved them more. When she moved to the States so they could be closer, I almost lost it.”

  Her mom stopped rocking. “Over time that hurt, that fear, grew. I couldn’t blame him, because I accepted his deal. I refused to take any blame—refused to acknowledge that if I’d just asked questions about his damn pager none of this would have happened. Instead, I blamed Mary Esther and Tabitha.”

  She sat silent for a few minutes, her tears still falling. Miranda felt her mom’s pain. She couldn’t imagine how hard it would be to see the man you loved leave to take care of someone he’d once loved.

  Her mom must’ve felt so insecure. And while the thought sliced into Miranda’s heart like a paper cut, Miranda knew that while her mom would never admit it, this was the reason she wanted Miranda to be perfect, the reason she hadn’t been able to accept Miranda’s dyslexia. For if Tabitha proved to be the better daughter, her father might have left them.

  “The therapist says it will take time to completely let go of what I feel, but I’m working on it. Already I can honestly say that I don’t hate Mary Esther or Tabitha. I don’t think I ever hated them. I hated the part of your father that he gave them—the time, the consideration, the money. I felt it belonged to you and me.”

  Her mom took Miranda’s hand again. “I’m not proud of how this has … I’m not proud of the type of mom I’ve been.”

  Wow, her mom was going to admit it.

  Now, Miranda’s tears almost equaled her mom’s. Feelings, old resentments, hurts rose to the surface, and her love for her mom, love that meant everything, kicked the resentments’ asses. Forgiveness was bliss.

  Her mom started talking again. “I’m going to change, Miranda. I promise. Forgive me, please?”

  Miranda stood and pulled her mom into a tight embrace. It was a good one. A healing one. “I forgive you. Maybe you haven’t been perfect, but you told me you loved me every day. You taught me to be kind and not to be prejudiced against any race or species. You hugged me every day. You never left me at a mall and let total strangers raise me.”

  That last statement required some explanation, but what was important was that Mi
randa not only had made peace with her mom, but some old grudges she hadn’t even admitted having were gone.

  Before her parents left, Miranda felt her skin tickling, her tattoo wanting to come out and play. She put her hand around her cast and whispered, “Not now.”

  Her mom and dad had enough shock for one day. They didn’t need to see their daughter covered in tattoos.

  * * *

  Perry took a deep breath and walked up to Jax’s house. He’d flown back to Houston early, expecting his dad to set up a time to meet and leave together. He hadn’t texted until almost five, giving Jax’s address and telling him to meet there directly. The same house he’d shown up to yesterday.

  He realized what this meant. Jax trusted him.

  Keep that up, brother.

  A guard pushed the door open.

  Perry’s mind went straight to the Italian guard he’d gotten placed on Jax’s hit list. Burnett still hadn’t gotten anything on him but wasn’t giving up. Perry didn’t like knowing he might’ve gotten the man killed.

  Entering the hall, he saw three guards standing court in the corner of the room. Then he saw Jax. He breathed through his right nostril, letting it out his left. He couldn’t lose it now.

  His gaze shifted. He spotted his mom and dad seated on a sofa. Yesterday the room had been empty, now it held furniture, the kind that came with price tags that Perry knew he could never afford.

  He nodded a greeting and eased into the room.

  He settled into one of those French-looking chairs with embroidered cushions. A glance at his mom showed she still had pimples. She’d tried to hide them under her bangs.

  Was he wrong to find joy from that? Hell no.

  He realized he hadn’t told Miranda thank you. Maybe tonight. If he returned.

  Honestly, he was exhausted. Holding her was heaven, but not conducive to sleep, and the trips back and forth were draining him. But he’d use his last little bit of energy to do it. As long as he wasn’t being followed. And he’d been more careful than ever.

  Jax spoke up. “Mom and your dad were telling me you have a girlfriend.”

  “I do.” He glanced at his mom. “What’s wrong with your forehead?”