An older man in a threatening posture was holding a sleepy Sherlock by the arm. The man shook Lock once, perhaps just to prove he could, and then he demanded again, “Who are you? And what were you doing lurking in the bushes there?”
That’s when I recognized him as the man from the grocery. Alice’s savior prince. Only, instead of the gentle concern that had wafted off the man when he dealt with Alice, now his eyes were boring into Lock like he wanted to burn him from the earth. Lock, in contrast, didn’t seem overly concerned about any of it. He gazed off into the distance as if his mind was taken up with too many other things to care.
“Let him go right now,” I said.
The prince stood firm. “I won’t. Not until I know who he is and what he’s doing here.”
“What he’s doing here is none of your business.” ?When he still didn’t let go of Lock, I ground out, “He is here because I want him to be here.”
The prince let go of Sherlock and said, “Sorry, then, lad.”
Sherlock shrugged and wandered up the front stairs and into the house, leaving me to deal with our resident guard all on my own.
“Who the hell are you?”
He cleared his throat and assumed a soldier’s at-ease stance before answering. “Stuart Tucker, miss. And I came because your aunt—”
“I know. Just . . .” I tried my best to calm down. “That one who just went inside? He comes and goes as he pleases. Got it?”
“Yes, miss.”
“My name is Mori.” My voice was softer this time, but I didn’t wait for his reply. Instead, I texted Mycroft quickly and then followed Sherlock inside.
By the time I got to my room, a Sherlock-shaped heap of boy was sprawled on the floor right on the spot where he used to sleep when my dad was still about the house.
“Where have you been?” I tossed my coat over my desk chair and kicked at his shoe twice. “Mycroft wants to know as well.”
He rolled over to stare at the ceiling. “Working a case.”
“The phone theft again?”
He didn’t answer in word or gesture, and I let it be, leaving him to muse into the rafters. I wasn’t sure why he was in my room instead of with his brother at the ward, but I didn’t have the energy to form the words into a question, so I grabbed a book and sank down onto my bed to read. Almost the minute I lay back on my pillow, however, I couldn’t seem to focus on the words. My mind was a tornado of half-answered questions, potential dangers, and endless unknowns. I put the book aside and let my mind spiral through the storm a bit. Then I watched Sherlock for a while, and when I shifted my gaze from him to the corner of envelope sticking out of my coat pocket, I caught him watching me. I draped my arm over the side of my bed so that my fingers could trace over the pattern of the rug and tried not to think about anything.
“Was it your second sin?” Sherlock asked, bringing me fully back to my senses in a way no other question would have. “The new drawing was your second sin?”
He’d seen the hidden text in the first illustration. Of course he had. And he hadn’t mentioned it yet, because . . .?
“Why didn’t you say anything?”
“I knew you’d find it yourself. This new one is of you lying to the constable in the park about your dad being with you. Right?”
“No. It isn’t.” Apparently, Lock had decided my “sins” were merely my mistakes.
He tilted his head to look directly at me. I looked across the room at my coat.
“Sadie.” I answered before he could ask, then watched him scowl and stare up at the ceiling again. I thought he might press me about it, so I asked, “Why didn’t you go to the hospital today?”
His expression was blank as he seemed to ponder that question. “She stopped breathing last night. Mycroft had to give her CPR.” His voice sounded a little more distant when he said, “She’s had heart troubles since she was my age. I never knew that about my own mother.”
“Mothers keep secrets.”
“They do.” Lock kicked one foot up and rested his heel on the toe of his other shoe. “She was supposed to be going in for regular treatments. She was supposed to be taking medications. But she stopped.”
“Why didn’t you go to the hospital today?”
“Sons are supposed to take care of their mothers, and she has two. She should’ve been doubly cared for.”
“She is.” It was a stupid thing to say, because I knew he wouldn’t believe it.
Lock shook his head. “She isn’t, though. Because it’s too late now for us to take care of her. So much of her heart is damaged, she can’t breathe right. The doctor said her next heart event will . . .” Lock took a quick breath and seemed startled by his own inability to finish the sentence.
“But you ask why I didn’t go there,” he continued. “It’s because of Mycroft. He’s intolerable on a good day, but do you know what he said to me after the doctor left? He said, ‘Then we’ll have to make sure she doesn’t have another.’ As if we can control her heart just by sitting at her bedside.”
Lock rubbed his eyes angrily, but it didn’t keep me from noticing how wet they were.