Chapter 2 - Smoke and Mirrors
The third-floor hallway was drafty, smelling of old cedar and expensive floor polish that couldn't quite mask the scent of ozone and burnt toast. My room was spacious, dominated by a four-poster mahogany bed that looked like it belonged in a museum rather than a house full of pint-sized anarchists. I hadn't even finished hanging my three changes of clothes in the walk-in closet when the first alarm went off.
It wasn't the house fire alarm. It was a rhythmic, earsplitting clatter of metal pans being beaten together with a wooden mallet, accompanied by a chant that sounded suspiciously like a war cry from Lord of the Flies.
"We want juice! We want blood! Nanny’s going down in the mud!"
I opened my door.
Caleb and Noah stood at the end of the hallway, Caleb wielding two heavy copper sauté pans like cymbals while Noah hammered a soup ladle against a cookie sheet. When they saw me step out, their eyes widened, but they didn't stop. If anything, Caleb increased his tempo, his face red with exertion.
"Is that a marching cadence or a cry for help?" I asked, raising my voice to carry over the metallic din.
Caleb stopped beating the pans, breathing heavily. "You’re supposed to come out crying! You’re supposed to lock your door and call your mommy!"
"My mom passed away when I was ten, and my sister is currently waiting for a liver transplant at Mount Sinai, so crying over pots and pans is kind of low on my priority list," I said smoothly, walking down the hall toward them at a measured, unhurried pace. "Is this the best you’ve got? Because if so, fourteen caregivers didn't quit because you were terrifying. They quit because you were boring."
Caleb’s jaw dropped. "Boring?! We released thirty mice in Brenda's closet!"
"Mice are rodents. Rodents have soft fur and whiskers. My last group home had an infestation of sewer rats the size of footballs that stole our shoes while we slept," I lied with a straight face—well, half-lied; the sewer rat part was exaggerated, but the spirit was accurate. "Mice are cute. You guys are slacking."
Noah lowered his cookie sheet, looking genuinely offended. "We're not slacking! We put itching powder in Evan's underwear this morning!"
"Okay, credit where credit is due, that’s actually top-tier sibling warfare," I admitted, stopping two feet away from them. I crouched down so I was at eye level with Noah. His eyes were the same deep, stormy gray as his father's, but filled with a frantic, unanchored energy. "Here’s the deal, boys. You want to make my life miserable? You’re going to have to do better than noise pollution. But while you're planning your next masterstroke, I'm heading down to the kitchen to make grilled cheese. Anyone who wants a sandwich has to follow two rules: no weapons at the table, and no throwing food at my head unless it’s pre-approved for a food fight."
Caleb stared at me like I had just spoken ancient Greek. "You’re... you’re making us lunch? After we banged pans?"
"I’m hungry, you’re loud, and angry kids get low blood sugar, which makes them sloppy," I stood up, smoothing down my skirt. "Last one to the kitchen has to wash the pans."
Before they could process my strategy, I turned and walked toward the stairs. For three long seconds, there was absolute silence behind me. Then I heard the frantic clatter of sneakers on hardwood as both boys scrambled to beat each other down the stairs.
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Step one of Operation De-escalation: completed.
Step two was going to be a lot harder because sitting at the end of the long mahogany dining table, flanked by two armed guards who looked like retired Navy SEALs, was Adrian Vale. And he didn't look happy.
