Meeting Midnight: Ankarrah Chronicles Book One Page 3

  “Right. I seem to remember losing a lot of money to you over the years.” Brian looks at me askance.

  “Maybe it’s because you’re just a sucky poker player.” I shrug my shoulders, hands up in a helpless gesture.

  Brent and Josh snicker under their breath.

  I wave my hand in the air, brushing the matter aside. “Again, since we can’t seem to stay on track today, what are you wanting me to do with your dad?”

  “Well, if you could come by the house after church on Sunday, we’re having family dinner. If you could sit down with me while I talk to him, that would be great. If he’s telling the truth, we can go from there,” Brian suggests.

  “Sure, that shouldn’t be a problem.” I pull out my phone to mark it down in my calendar—the only thing that keeps my life straight. “Your mom going to be there?” I ask, keeping my face lowered and my eyes focused in my phone.

  “Pretty sure, you know, since it’s family dinner and all.”

  Lifting my head, I catch his fading smirk.

  “I can run interference if it gets too bad,” Brent offers. He knows too well that Cynthia—never call me Cindy—Hastings and I don’t get along very well. I give him a grateful smile. He’s been nice enough to not question me about it. Not that I would have an answer for him anyway, since I have no idea what’s wrong either.

  “I’ll join you, if that’s okay. I haven’t seen Mark or Cynthia in a while,” Josh puts in.

  “Sounds like a good party to me, then,” Brian states.

  Chapter Two

  “What do you think is happening with Uncle Mark?” I ask Josh, looking at all the beautiful houses in the College Hill neighborhood. The grand, mansion-like homes dominate the fifteen-block square in the middle of Wichita. Formerly housing the wealthiest, most influential people in decades past, the area is still well-kept and has some of the most beautiful homes I’ve ever seen. None of the houses look like their neighbor, and that just makes me love them more.

  “No idea, but I think if Uncle Mark’s saying these kinds of things, then something is really bothering him.” Josh pulls up to the curb and shuts off his Camaro. Grand homes with street parking.

  “Yeah.” Uncurling from the car, I fix the bottom of my skirt that’s gotten caught in the strap of my sandal. I turn to look at him. “Once more into the fray?”

  “Lead the way, Ms. Tindol.” Meeting me at the base of the driveway, Josh drops into a sweeping bow, arm motioning the way to the huge solid wood double door. I give him a regal nod, a smile pulling on the corner of my mouth.

  Never feeling comfortable enough at Cynthia’s house to just walk in—something we do at each other’s houses, we wait for someone to open to the front doors for us after using the old-fashioned knocker.

  The door is opened by the lady of the house. Cynthia Hastings is dressed to perfection. Her penchant for spin classes and Pilates has left her with little to no body fat, and skin that always looks one size too small. Her cold manner must protect even her hair, because her blond locks don’t even frizz up in the high humidity of Wichita summers. Her thin lips are in a constant state of sneering, making her look like she’s smelled something unpleasant. Her makeup is just a touch too harsh, and her voice reminds me of a chronic laryngitis sufferer who smokes a pack a day.

  Today’s Doctor’s Wife outfit is a slim-fit pair of black pants, white blouse, chunky gold necklace, and appropriately matched shoes. I’ve never seen Cynthia in anything but name brand; nor have I ever seen her in any outfit more than once.

  “Welcome, Josh.” She smiles and her eyes twinkle. Her low, smoked-foghorn voice is never what I expect to come out of her mouth.

  “Finley.” I get a turned-up nose and a delicate sniff. Probably my overabundance of color in my maxi dress. The nerve, to wear a floral print in the spring.

  “Aunt Cynthia, good to see you.” Josh busses her cheek as is their customary greeting. Stepping into the grand hall, I stop just over the threshold, waiting for Cynthia to close and secure the doors behind us.

  “Cynthia.” I nod at her. Our civility towards each other is something of a mystery to me. I’ve never given her a reason to not like me, at least not that I know of. I remember meeting her the first time, full-on smiles, laughter, hugs. A couple of months later, Ice Queen had invaded her body; no explanation given. I’m not sure why, but something about her unsettles me that I struggle to define, even to myself.

  Tuning out the chatter between Cynthia and Josh, I allow my vision to fill with the colors of the Spectrum, and just watch her. Her body shows a sluggish pulse of varying greens overlaying her normal heather gray. She’s in pain, but not physical pain. Her Spectrum flares red as she turns to stare at me, done with her conversation with Josh. I hurry to look like I haven’t spaced out.

  “Finley.” Her cold tone holds the barest hint of a question.

  “I’m sorry. What were you saying?” There goes my attempt at looking engaged.

  “I asked how your parents were.” The slightest whiff of offense colors her frozen tone.

  “Oh, they’re great, just like always. Living the dream in the Bahamas,” I reply airily. My parents are considerably older than Josh’s. Older even than Mark and Cynthia. “Dad’s loving being retired, and mom can volunteer as a nurse to her heart’s content.” Not that I think Cynthia cares, but it makes me smile a little when her unhappy sneer pinches ever so slightly at the corners.

  “Wonderful.” Her tone of voice makes it sound like I’ve brought dog poop in on my shoes, instead of giving her an update on my parents.

  “Give them my best.” This stated as she walks away, the sound of her heels clipping on the hardwood floors, echoing off the walls.

  “Will do,” I call after her. Chuckling under my breath just a little, I exhale sharply as Josh jabs his elbow into my side.

  “Did you really have to start out with rubbing her face in it?” he asks quietly.

  “What? She’s the one who asked. I’m not going to lie just to save her feelings. If she’s even got any,” I add the last under my breath. Shrugging my cardigan off my shoulders, I place it and my purse on the little bench inside the entryway alcove.

  “Dinner is ready. Please come join us in the dining room.” Cynthia raises her voice to be heard from the doorway.

  Josh and I pick up our pace. Making Cynthia wait is in no one’s best interest. I’m pretty sure Mark is the only one who gets away with it.

  I step into their renovated dining room and feel like I’m looking at a magazine spread. All the latest colors, fabrics, textures, and furniture decorate the room. Their interior designer has got to love Cynthia: she renovates every two years, even if the styles haven’t changed that much.

  “There they are.” The deep bellow from across the room pulls my attention to one of my favorite humans. Uncle Mark is tall, just like his boys. Although he doesn’t work out all the time like Brent, or do construction to stay fit like Brian, he’s still in good shape. Just starting to go soft around the middle, but not enough to make any of his clothes fit any tighter yet. Just looking at him and you can see where his boys get their rugged and hewn facial features.

  “Uncle Mark.” I walk around the table big enough to seat a full military squadron and ease myself into his comfortable bear hug. The man gives the best hugs. “I’ve missed you.”

  “I’ve missed you, too, Finley. I’m so glad you’ve come.” I can feel his lips brush my hair as he gives me a final squeeze. Josh gets the same treatment.

  “Sit, sit, sit. Cynthia’s outdone herself for dinner today.” Mark beams at the shriveled old prune with love in his eyes. I would’ve loved to have met her in her younger days.

  “Thank you, Mark.” She nods at him from her seat to his direct right.

  Brian, dressed up in charcoal slacks and a deep green button-up shirt with the sleeves rolled back onto his forearms, takes his usual seat to Mark’s left.

  I steal the seat Brent normally occupies on Brian’s other side. I
get a wink as Brent sits next to his mother. Brent looks just a handsome as Brian, but with black pants and checkered print shirt. Josh slides in beside me. I guess we both look a little less dressed up than the Mark Hastings family, but Josh and I go to a different church. One that’s a little more laid back in terms of attire.

  We all join hands as Mark says grace, thanking God for our lives, the food, our health, and the wonderful weather. We all say amen and I devour the awesome spread of food before me with my eyes.

  Cynthia has outdone herself on dinner. While it looks like the woman hasn’t seen a stray calorie in her life, she did have to feed two big growing boys, and one man who is not small. The homemade Italian dinner puts most five-star restaurants to shame. What she lacks in showing physical affection, she makes up for in cooking and giving of her time.

  “This is delicious, Cynthia,” I say, toasting her with my water glass.

  “Thank you, Finley.” Her back has got to hurt with that steel rebar poking up her spine.

  “Too true, mom. This is delicious. I’ll have to come home for dinner more often,” Brian says, his mouth full of the creamy, savory pasta.

  Her spine unbends, and her cheeks pinken. “Thank you, dear. I’ve been trying to get you to come to dinner for ages now. I’m hoping to bribe you into at least a couple times a month.”

  “Even if he doesn’t want it, I’ll definitely agree to that. Although I’ll probably have to up my gym time to combat all of the pounds your cooking adds to my body,” Brent adds.

  “I don’t know if I’m invited, but I’ll come as often as you let me. This is wonderful.” Josh joins in on the gratitude train.

  “Of course, you’re invited, Josh.” She murmurs with a slight smile on her face.

  I’m no longer upset that I don’t get even a token invitation. Cynthia and I seem to exist on different planets that just happen to come into each other’s orbits every once and again. To be honest, I’m not sure how I would react if the invitation had been extended to me. This woman gives me the heebie-jeebies.

  Dinner discussion is full of the boys updating their parents about their current lives. Brian’s company got a couple of new contracts, so he’s pretty happy. Brent closed a high-profile case that earned him and the firm some great publicity. Josh brought a new account to the agency, and his dad is on Cloud Nine.

  “And Finley, what about you?” Mark asks, working to include me in the family conversation.

  “I’m doing really well. I’ve got almost a full book. It’s been a long two years.” I smile at him.

  Starting a business is a lot more daunting than I thought it would be. I’m just thankful I have the support system I do—Cynthia notwithstanding. Mark is so dear to me. He, behind my own dad and Josh’s, has been one of the most stable, and encouraging men in my life. And considering some of what my life has held, stable and encouraging can never be oversold.

  “I knew you’d do it!” He exclaims. “Didn’t I tell you, Cynthia? That Finley, she’s going places, I said.” He looks to his wife for her agreement.

  Being forced to talk about me in good terms seems to be her limit. She dabs her mouth delicately with a linen napkin.

  “Yes, dear, that’s what you said.” Her stiff reply nothing new. “Why don’t you all go into Mark’s study. It’s more comfortable in there.” She rises and begins gathering all of the dirty dishes around her.

  “We can help, mom.” Brent jumps up to help her.

  “No, dear. I’ve got it. I know you wanted to talk with your father.” She shoos him, and all of us, out of the room.

  “What’s this?” Mark asks, his eyebrows scrunched, confusion darkening his features as he stands with the rest of us.

  “We just wanted to talk with you dad. No worries,” Brian soothes. He leads the way across the grand hallway to another stately door. Pushing the heavy door open, he stands aside and waits for all of us to enter.

  Mark still looks confused, but he’s game for most things his boys suggest. He walks in and sits behind his desk, the old leather no longer squeaking.

  The boys and I range ourselves around the masculine, bookshelf-lined room. I’ve spent a lot of time in this room, reading Mark’s old anatomy books. It always smells like pine and bonfires in here. The smell is comforting, and brings back happy memories.

  I sit in the farthest chair, nearest the bay window that looks out to their miniscule backyard, and hope I can fade into the background. The boys take the two armchairs sitting directly opposite Mark’s gigantic cherry wood desk. Josh lounges on the couch along the far wall. I feel like we’re trying to go out of our way to not gang up on Mark, and wonder why Brian didn’t discuss this with his dad to begin with.

  Shifting once again into my Spectrum perception, I try to focus only on Mark. Usually when I use the Spectrum, I’m not worried about getting caught, or having my facial expression give me away. When I use it with patients, they are typically face down on the table, faces squished in a face rest cradle. Trying to look like I’m engaged while using the Spectrum is going to be pushing some of my abilities to their limits, I fear.

  Clearing his throat, Brian begins, “Dad, we’ve asked Finley and Josh to join us because we’re concerned for you.”

  I stifle a laugh. It sounds like Brian’s been watching too many staged interventions on YouTube.

  Mark’s energy swirls from his typical cornflower blue to a sickly orange. Mark immediately straightens up in his chair, his colors stretching and lengthening out around his upright body. “Why on earth would you do that?” The embarrassment is easy to hear and flares a bright pink on the Spectrum.

  “Because we love you and want to do whatever we can to help you,” Brent adds in his more practical lawyer voice.

  “I understand that, but why must Josh and Finley join us?” He must have realized how that sounded, because he hurried to add, “Not that I don’t love you both, but this doesn’t really concern anyone but me.” The embarrassed pink washes over his whole body this time.

  “No worries, Uncle Mark. We’re not offended.” This from Josh on the far side of the room. I make some kind of affirming noise.

  “Dad, Brent and I asked Josh and Finley to come so we could get some more people to help us. People who love you,” Brian explains. “They just want you to be happy, and you’ve not been happy in a couple of weeks. We’re all starting to worry.”

  “There’s no need to worry.” Mark’s voice wavers, and his Spectrum flares like a rainbow under UV light, all of the colors distorted and bleached. He’s definitely worried.

  “Just tell us all what you found. Please,” Brent encourages.

  “I’ve already told you boys. You didn’t seem like you believed me, and because I didn’t want to bother you with it, I just let it drop.” It sounds like Mark has to swallow around a lump in his throat. His Spectrum bleeds to deep sorrowful blue. Having his boys not believe him crushed him, the hurt still fresh.

  “Please, dad. We promise to listen with open minds.” I can’t tell if it’s Brian or Brent talking; I’m so focused on watching the Spectrum and listening to the conversation.

  “I don’t want to burden you.” Mark tries one more time, a tiny flash of hopeful green flaring around the edges.

  “We all want to be here for you, Uncle Mark.” I barely manage to string the words together as I watch that flickering green brighten to a streak like a shooting star. Splitting my focus between Spectrum watching and conversing is a lot harder than I thought it would be. While it takes more effort to restrain the Spectrum than it does to use it, trying to use the Spectrum and have a conversation feels like I’m a rubber band that’s being stretched uncomfortably tight.

  Mark’s head and shoulders slump in relief, the majority of his colors falling back to his normal cornflower blue.

  “A little background for Josh and Finley then. I work in genetics and started working in variations after the genome was fully mapped in 2003. Since that time, I’ve been working on understandin
g various adaptations in mutations. With the explosion in genealogy and ancestry DNA testing in the wider public, my job has become much more interesting. The agency I work for, Collaborative Genetics, is owned by Syv Global. I was approached by someone high up in SG to work on a compartmentalized project. I made a breakthrough about twelve weeks ago and reported my findings to my supervisor.”

  Mark’s Spectrum is shifting through every color I’ve ever seen. He’s both excited and terrified. He truly believes whatever he is saying.

  “About a week after sending off the findings, I began to notice different pieces of lab equipment moved. A report where I hadn’t filed it. A memo that had been on my desk was now on my lab table. I also started noticing my desk chair in different positions than where I had left it. I know I’m not the most attentive man when it comes to mundane details, so I just pushed it from my mind as me being forgetful.”

  “But it kept happening. I tried to remember to put my chair in the same place every night before leaving the office. I even wrote myself a coded note and left it on my computer screen. Three times in the last two weeks the chair has been in a different place.” The shock of having his space invaded still a living thing in his voice.

  “I thought maybe the cleaning crew had moved it during their duties. But when I asked the building manager about the possibility, he said that no crews do anything in my office except empty the trash, which is located nowhere near my desk or desk chair. So that ruled out the easiest possibility. I also started noticing that the keyboard was in a different position on the desk. To make sure I wasn’t simply imagining things, I drew a small line on the desk where the top of the keyboard should rest. The keyboard had been moved at the same time my desk chair had been moved.”

  “I approached my project supervisor, wanting to let him know that I thought something was going on in the lab when I wasn’t there. He said he would investigate it. That was almost two months ago. Now I’m just not sure what to believe. I know I’m not imagining things, but I also don’t know who to go to about it since the program is compartmentalized.”