Chapter 5: How Did They Choose That Name?

Shelley frowned in her sleep.

The dream came the way it always did—not exactly a memory, but something like a remix. The clock tower at Eton. Three hundred and twelve steps, and she was climbing every single one in slow motion, her legs heavy as lead, her breath turning to fog in the December air.

Go ahead, sister. Jump. You'll be free.

Behind her stood the Lane family. Her father's face was blank. Her mother's lips twisted with disgust. Her brothers looked bored. No one reached out. No one said wait.

Her toes inched over the edge.

"—nngh!"

Shelley's eyes flew open. She jerked upright, the throw blanket sliding down to her knees. Cold sweat soaked through her thin shirt. The air conditioning hit the dampness like ice water, and she shivered hard, gasping for breath.

Her hand shot to her throat. Still there. Still attached. Still alive.

The chaise lounge next to her rustled.

Advanced Organic Synthesis snapped shut with a sharp clack.

Shayne turned his head. Those blue eyes caught the warm lamplight and threw it back cold as glass. His eyebrows were pinched so tight together they could've crushed a fly.

"..."

He opened his mouth. Closed it again.

What would Dad say right now?

What would Mom say?

He ran a quick search through six years of stored data on "normal human emotional responses to signs of distress in familiar people." Result: nothing.

Shayne reached out one hand. It hung in the air for three full seconds, wavering between several possible paths. Then he brought it down on Shelley's head in one firm, decisive pat.

Not hard. Not gentle. Just... there.

"...Dreams are just your brain processing stuff during REM sleep," he said, sounding like he was reading from a research paper. "They can't predict anything. Five-year-olds average 2.3 nightmares per week. Totally normal brain development."

Shelley stared at him.

Shayne's hand stayed frozen on her head.

After a moment, with obvious mechanical effort, he moved it downward. Two stiff, experimental strokes, like someone testing out controls on an unfamiliar machine. Like someone petting an animal they'd never seen before and weren't totally sure wouldn't bite.

Shelley's nose tingled. She sniffled, leaned into his palm, and pressed her head against his hand.

"Okay," she said quietly. "I get it, Brother."

Shayne yanked his hand back so fast it was a blur. He clenched it into a fist and shoved it deep in his coat pocket. His ears were bright red. He lifted his book like a shield, hiding his face behind it, and his voice came through the pages muffled and tight.

"...Next time you have a nightmare. Call me."

"Call you for what?"

"...I'll run probability calculations until you're not scared anymore."

Shelley laughed—a small, watery sound that broke something loose in her chest. The thick, sticky horror of the dream dissolved, punched through by the sheer ridiculousness of what he'd just offered.

"Okay," she said. "I'm holding you to that."

At three-thirty, the beat-up Chevy rattled to a stop outside Iliad's gates, a shabby sparrow in a row of swans. Rolls-Royces. Maybachs. A single Maserati that probably cost more than the entire Eastside block where Shelley had been reborn.

Silas had traded his usual jacket for an even more worn flannel shirt, with a stain on the cuff that might've been motor oil or might've been something way less innocent. The perfect outfit for a tired rancher picking up his kids from the fancy school the grateful headmaster had insisted they attend.

Shelley threw herself through the back door and straight into Vera's arms.

Vera had skipped her basement "business" today. She'd spent the morning baking cinnamon rolls, and her sweater still smelled faintly of vanilla and browned butter. "How was it, sweetheart? Did anyone give you trouble?"

She asked with a smile, her green eyes crinkling at the corners. Shelley knew better. If she said yes—if she gave a single name—that person would have a tragic and completely accidental gas leak in their home before midnight.

"No," she said, shaking her head. "Emily shared her cream puff with me. The boy in the vest said I could come see his pony. The red-haired girl said my hair buns were cute and she wants to be friends."

Vera hugged her tighter. "Our Shelley's such a social butterfly. Just like Mama. When I was at that convent school in Paris, the other girls swarmed around me the second I walked in."

Silas coughed into his fist from the driver's seat.

He remembered the Paris convent school incident crystal clear. Vera had been there three days before the headmistress's office lost half its front wall to what the official report called "unexplained structural failure." Vera's version: the morning hymn was off-key and it was messing up her aim.

Shelley completely missed the subtext. Mama was praising her. She kicked her heels against the seat cushion, thrilled.

"Mama," she said, tilting her head up, "are all my brothers as amazing as Shayne?"

Vera lit up like someone had flipped a switch. "Of course! Your oldest brother, Cole—he got his medical license from Johns Hopkins at sixteen. Youngest licensed surgeon in the country. He runs the cardiac wing at Meridian General now."

Shelley's cinnamon roll crumbled in her hand.

Sixteen.

Johns Hopkins.

Youngest licensed surgeon.

She'd spent eight years at the Lane estate. She knew exactly what those three things meant together.

She blinked her eyes wide and round, the picture of innocent wonder. "Wow. Big Brother's so smart. Did he spend his whole childhood locked in a dark room studying anatomy books? Is that how he got so good?"

Silas jerked the wheel. The Chevy nearly kissed a fire hydrant.

"Ahem!" He glared at her in the rearview mirror. "There were no dark rooms. Your brother's a prodigy. You know what a prodigy is? It means God dropped a brain on his head and said, 'This one's special.'"

"Then why did God drop it on his head and not yours?" Shelley asked, completely sincere. "Dad, you look like you could use a new brain too."

Silence.

"................................"

Shayne made a sound like air leaking from a punctured tire—the closest thing to a laugh he ever made.

Silas sputtered, reaching back to swat at her bun. "You little brat. Two days in this family and you're already talking back to your father?"

Shelley dissolved into giggles, burrowing deeper into Vera's arms, legs kicking. "Mama, save me!"

"Silas." Vera's voice was honey poured over razor wire. Her fingers traced lazy circles on the door handle. "Are you sure you want to touch my daughter? Right in front of me?"

Silas's hand shot back at roughly the speed of light. "Just playing, baby. Shelley's so sharp. Obviously gets it from you."

Shayne stared out the window and buried his face in his turtleneck, rolling his eyes so hard Shelley could practically hear it from three feet away.

Back home, Vera didn't even take off her coat. She grabbed Shelley's hand and pulled her straight upstairs to a room that had apparently been a guest bedroom forty-eight hours ago.

Workers had knocked down walls overnight. Cream-white wool carpet stretched wall to wall. Floor-to-ceiling oak wardrobes lined every surface.

Shelley pushed the door open and froze.

Three rows of hanging rods. Each one packed so tight you couldn't slide a finger between the clothes.

"Mama..." Her voice came out rough. "These are all..."

"Do you like them?" Vera's eyes were like spotlights, already pulling out a silk dress to hold up against Shelley. "I didn't sleep last night. I picked everything myself. I've also pre-ordered next season's Paris spring collection. We'll refresh everything when it comes in."

"I love them." Shelley's voice was pure sugar. "Mama has the best taste."

She didn't cry. She didn't. She absolutely would not cry in front of Vera, because crying made you look weak, and weak things got sent back.

Vera scooped her up and spun her around, laughing.

Before dinner, Silas called Shelley into his study.

"Come here, princess. Help Dad with something."

Shelley climbed onto the tall stool across from his desk. "What is it?"

"Dad needs to pick some new partners. For the ranch. Cattle... feed business." Silas delivered this lie with a straight face that could've beaten a polygraph. "Too many people applying. You pick one for me."

Shelley looked down at the stack of files.

Shayne appeared in the doorway at some point, hands in his pockets, his gaze cold and sharp on the papers.

He glanced at the top sheet. His eyes narrowed slightly.

Special paper. Edges treated with a chemical that changed color when it got wet. It was their father's old system for marking high-priority targets. This wasn't a list of business partners. It was a carefully put-together menu of people Silas was thinking about killing.

Shayne opened his mouth to say something.

Shelley's small hand slid across the stack. Her finger stopped, no hesitation, on a file halfway down.

"This one."

Silas's pen stopped spinning.

"...This one?" His voice went quiet. "You're sure?"