Brightmore

By Pendleton Weiss

There is a place held far from the world, secreted away within a prodigious and twisted wilderness, cupped by a perilous mountain range, and accessible by only the most remote turn-offs, far from any significant landmarks; a place known to the locals as that old, misty country. Every night, an inexplicable mist seeps from between the trees bringing for untold terrors, horrid and strange and deadly all. It is best to shun the place, best to leave it undisturbed, for otherwise...

Well, it's best to Hope It's Fiction.

That old, misty country is seen (by those initiated to its deeper secrets) as the dominion of that mysterious family, the Brightmores. The current patriarch, Mr. Artorius Brightmore, the kind philanthropist, certainly knows something about the unusual occurrences taking place. Whether a merciful protector or a malicious tyrant, he manipulates information and hides away the worst tragedies to befall the region. But ominous signs are mounting, perhaps foretelling some impending damnation, be it local or global in scale, and there are others rising up, competitors that seek to claim some crowns for themselves. Cynthia Walker, the reporter infamously called the "Public's Assassin," is on her way to expose Mr. Brightmore for the monstrous dictator/cult leader she assumes him to be. But just how right are her wicked suppositions?

Follow Cynthia's travels through that old, misty country in "Cometh," "The Drive In," "Out and About," and "Time to Leave." Learn too of the worries Sergeant Jeremy Lowe and Ms. Talzman face in "Something You Cannot Touch," "That Invincible Age," and "Just A Phase." And see the situation worsen in "Enemy of My Enemy," "Due Diligence," "Ain't Nothing to Worry About," and many more.

The second act begins and a happy ending is starting to look less and less likely. But you don't have worry: you only need to Hope It's Fiction.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Jul 27, 2023
• ISBN: 9798350916355

Book preview

A black and white drawing of a cigarette butts Description automatically generated

Other HOPE IT’S FICTION Books

That Old, Misty Country

Melancholies & Wanderlust

Elsewhere

The Black Room with the White Line

HOPE IT’S FICTION

BRIGHTMORE

A COLLECTION OF STORIES

DECIPHERING A RENOWN PHILANTHROPIST

By Pendleton Weiss

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © 2021 by Pendleton Weiss

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or used in any manner without written permission of the copyright owner except for the use of quotations in a book review.

For more information, address: [e-mail].

First paperback edition July 2023

ISBN 979-8-35-091634-8 (paperback)

ISBN 979-8-35-091635-5 (ebook)

Printed through BookBaby

www.bookbaby.com

CONTENTS

COMETH

HAZE

ENEMY OF MY ENEMY

CONSPIRACY OF INK

THE DRIVE IN

GLORIOUS

JUST A PHASE

SOMETHING YOU CANNOT TOUCH

OUT AND ABOUT

MISADVENTURE

DUE DILIGENCE

THAT INVINCIBLE AGE

AIN’T NOTHING TO WORRY ABOUT

TIME TO LEAVE

EBBING OF A BRIGHT DAY

COMETH

A small gust of wind stirred the dust with more vehemence than the lazy day demanded. Waist-high clouds rolled past the dirty windows of a solitary gas station, throwing out almost imperceptible shadows as they went. The attendant looked up, not so much because of a great need to, nor because his powers of observation were so remarkable that the slight change required cataloguing; there was simply not much else to do – the words of his book were starting to run together. He rubbed his eyes, checked his watch, and stretched. The afternoon had passed its zenith.

The stretch grew long, extensive. It drew out a yawn, one akin to a warbling howl, a lonesome yawn with unchecked volume. His muscles had hit a particularly necessary position and the result was exquisite. His back arched further, testing the limits of his flexibility and the good feeling it brought about. Emphasized, the nametag on his overalls read Gunther.

When his mouth finally snapped shut, another noise came to him. It must have been long muffled by his own commotion, for the long stretch of road more often announced oncoming vehicles at a greater distance. With a few final twists, elbows held out for proper posture, he finished his preparations and circled around the counter. His pace was slow; anything else would have been unnecessary. He waded through a selection of jerkies, cigarettes, old reading material, bottles and cans of refreshments (or so their packaging claimed, if one ignored their expiration dates), batteries, maps, and a smattering of pills that could be sold without prescriptions – everything with a long shelf life. The wooden floorboards creaked under his boots – low, stretched agonies sighing out his progress.

He made it to the windows. Ignored them. Settled in with a shoulder on the door frame, the screen held wide open by a good-sized rock. It helped circulate the air but gave the front end of his store a thorough scouring. Grit along the novelty mugs depicting places nowhere nearby. It did not matter much: they never sold, and he did not have a fan to stave off the heat.

Straining his eyes against the vista, the attendant sought the tell-tale gleam of approaching windshield. The landscape was mostly flat, with patches of hills, patches of trees – it was just altogether patchy. At least, in the western direction. Had he the inclination to turn around, he would see the open spaces overwhelmed by a battlement of old-growth trees, a towering forest dominating the eastern skyline. He had no need to look. Few cars ever came from that direction; they would sink into that old, misty country and disappear, as far as he knew, never returning along the same road they went in by. But maybe that was simply because whoever visited took the highway out, knowing better than to waste time on the backroad he watched over.

There was no need to check in any case: the signaling gleam stabbed, cresting a dip in the road before darting behind a hill. He knew the curving stretch well. Even with the high speed he marked, there would be time to put a fresh pot of coffee on and be about ready when the traveler pulled in.

And most pulled in. Asking for directions or refilling gas. Fulfilling some lonesome need to talk, despite the attendant’s poor socializing. His store was the only landmark for a long way, coming either direction.

He had gauged the vehicle’s speed well. The rumbling of the engine, changing in tone only because of the variance of the environment (and not a change in speed), duetted the ticking of an old clock. He worked to the pace they set. The last dribbles were falling into the coffee pot when there was a final crackling gasp, the gravel out front scattering as the car braked late in front of the door.

When he managed to turn and look at the visitor, the attendant was surprised by the magazine scene in front of him. A red convertible, the sides kept clean by the high speeds at which it had come, shining in the blazing sunlight; the shadow of the awning above the gas pumps was cast long by the worsening afternoon, leaving no cover. A woman driving, hair unfurled however unintentionally. Neither hat nor tie could have kept the curls subdued as the air whipped past. Large sunglasses. A beautiful face. A model, by which he meant rich. Richer than himself. He had seen a few like her, some even in person, but not many driving along that road of his. It gave him pause, coffee pot clutched unknowingly in hand, as he squinted out at what might only be a mirage.

Meanwhile, the woman exited and peered back, just as skeptically, searching the darker interior for any sign of life. She noticed him with a start after he idly started toward the door, still so overcome by wonder that he did so without a word of welcome. Her reaction shook him from his stupor, and he waved her in. Come on in. What can I get you? Gas? Coffee?

He remembered the fresh pot in his hand and set it back into the brewer. By the time he turned back around, she had crossed the threshold of the front door and stood scanning the shelves. It was not with an eye to buy; her eyes were hidden by the sunglasses (now an unwavering black, without reflection) but her mouth was tugged tight with judgmental thoughts.

Both, she said finally, her inspection complete. Gas and coffee. And directions.

Oh, well. That’s to be expected. I don’t meet too many people who come around these parts that don’t need directions. He tried to smile. It was unpracticed. Luckily, I give them out free of charge.

Goo- Thank you. I appreciate it.

The woman peeled the sunglasses from her nose and settled her hair with a small headshake. Once more: a model. But even in the gloom, the attendant noted the dark bags under the woman’s eyes. The drive must have harrowed her make-up. He hastily turned to grab the promised coffee.

I’m on my way to Passerport, if you’ve ever heard of it, but my GPS system has been having some issues and I think I took a wrong turn as it was buffering.

Passerport, eh? I’d say you aught to get yourself a new machine then. You could have kept to the highway – it would’ve been faster and easier, if you didn’t miss the exit. I reckon you turned off a little way before it. I’ve seen it happen before. Not too often, mind you, as not many head over that way. Not through here at least. Your little detour took you a bit further south than you needed.

He chuckled, practicing his laugh. Being friendly. Personally, he did not think the situation was funny.

The woman remained silent. Observant. Arms crossed, with her purse tucked into an armpit. It’s a rental.

The attendant gazed past her at the car, then handed the steaming cup over when he realized he had let the silence linger too long.

Well, you needn’t worry too much about it. Just a little detour, some sightseeing. Not that there is anything around here worth looking overly long at. He paused. Oh, did you want anything with it?

Sugar or cream was implied. Nothing fancier resided within. Nor cream really, none of any worth.

It’s fine, the woman snipped. The way her face scrunched as she took her first sip said otherwise, yet she did not relent. So, I’m close then?

Yes. Yes. Well, there is still a bit of a drive, but it’s a straightforward one.

He looked to the side, as if looking through the wall of the little store. He raised an arm to point and caught himself. His elbow dipped, stricken with uncertainty, but then buoyed. The woman’s eyes remained on him. He slowly crept for the door, driving her along after she understood that he meant to show her.

You saw those trees up ahead. The forest. That big patch – you couldn’t have missed it. This road, yes, this road here heads right into them. And it eventually connects to the main road off the highway. That road leads to Passerport. As long as you don’t turn off onto any smaller road, you can’t miss it.

They were on the porch, looking out, his arm raised, pointing out as he intended from the start. His finger stabbed out at the not-so-distant tree line and the deep shadows between them; deep shadows despite the setting sun shooting its rays directly upon them. The sky looked darker to him. The afternoon was waning.

The woman failed to notice. Her hand was raised above her eyes, acting as a visor, needless in the little strip of shade they shared and with the sun at their backs. Her sunglasses dangled from her fingers, a small barrier between their faces.

With a small grimace, the attendant twisted toward the opposite direction and continued his speech. He gesticulated as much to block the sun from his eyes as to grab the woman’s attention.

The motel will have a vacancy, I’m sure. There’s a good diner across the street, too. You’ll need to loop around to the intersection you passed and turn down it. Won’t take you too long to get to the heart of it and there won’t be much trouble finding anything once you do; it’s a small town.

Whatever hypnotism holding the woman’s gaze on that foreboding wilderness subsided, freeing her senses enough for her to recognize the man’s change of direction. She took a step away and threw on a sickly-sweet accent. Excuse me. I thought you said Passerport was over yonder.

Yes, but you’ll want–

And I’m going to Passerport.

Oh, oh no. You cannot! The man jolted as if shocked by the sudden breakdown in communication. His arms flinched as if to clutch at her, but he kept his fear in check. The woman, to her credit, stared him down without retreating.

It’s too late to head up that way tonight. You’ll never make Passerport in time. Not before sunset.

I am perfectly capable of driving at night. My rental car has headlights and everything. Annoyance was filling her speech with barbs and her body subtly oozed her growing impatience at the interaction. Had the car been refueled, she would certainly have stormed off.

I don’t mean anything by it, ma’am. I don’t mean any insult by it. But you don’t know the roads or those woods. It’s not a place you want to be driving around in, especially not after dark. Not in that old, misty country.

The words hung in the air despite the small gust that drew up to carry them away. It was a chill breeze, and the sky was, in a small way, losing its blue. Those two remained frozen, eyeing each other. It was as if the phrase held some importance.

The woman did not seem to recognize their gravity, however. I’ve driven off-road before–

Nah-it’s not the same. It’s too dangerous. Please, just stay the night over at McInty’s and head over in the morning, after the mist has had some time to clear.

Her arms were crossed, her weight had been shifted onto a favored foot, and she was staring the man down skeptically. The man’s pleading sounded suspiciously like a roundabout way of securing some capital for the remote town, some money for the aforementioned motel and diner. But it might be something else, the very something that had brought her to the region in the first place.

She spoke slowly and deliberately, probing deeply into the man’s exact reason for fearing the place. The roads were paved and reasonably well-kept for such an isolated area, something the local powers were keen on (for whatever reason). The distance was not far, though the roads snaked through the trees, with enough blind corners to make high speeds impossible. If she hurried, she might make it to Passerport before 10:00, but it was not worth the risk. The darkness would be complete, with the treetops blocking out any light from the moon or stars, and the fog that came in after dark was of an unbelievable thickness. Yes, it was the fog – or mist – that was the real danger; he assured her it was.

Yet, when she assured him that she had driven in such weather before, he implied there was something else. She questioned further, with both speaking quickly; the woman out of eagerness and the man out of a growing anxiety that she might not be persuaded. Something within the woods, particularly after dark, was worse than poor driving conditions.

I’ve dealt with car wrecks before, pile ups on highways with a thousand cars. Why would I be scared of scraping some paint on an empty road when I’m being careful?

That something else was not crime. She asked and re-asked, promising discretion. The man insisted it was something else. Eventually, she clawed out the root of his fears: boorish superstition.

The woman scoffed.

You might not believe me, but it’s as true a thing as anything. I don’t go there myself, but I have seen plenty from right here. Late at night, when the moon is bright enough to light everything up, on occasion, I look out that way, see the mist tickling the edges of the trees, writhing like strands of– well, like worms, living things. As though it was alive and searching. And out between the trees, where there should be dark spaces, I have seen other things. Terrible.

He refused to describe them, though it could not be said if it was out of some sense of decency or for a lack of imagination.

Annoyed, she set him to getting her gas, since she would need it regardless. As he was bent over the pump, she shot him a suspicious glance and prepared to tug at another possible thread.

Are you acquainted with a Mr. Brightmore?

The man straightened out but did not turn his head. He sunk back to his task before speaking. Personally, I can’t say that I do. He’s supposed to be some bigwig in the area, isn’t he? Don’t hear too much about him on this side of the forest though.

Really? The woman slunk over next to the man; he kept his head down, as though there was a dire need to keep watch over the side of her car. I find that very unusual. Someone so well known, all around the country, is what – a stranger to you?

A small chime came before the quivering hose stilled. The attendant hooked the pump back up, then turned to face the woman again. I can’t say I’ve been around the country much, so I wouldn’t know. I only know I’ve never seen him stop by here or in town. That town over there. He pointed the opposite direction of her destination. Which I would advise you to visit, as it’s getting dark.

They both unintentionally gazed out, catching the bleeding orange of approaching twilight.

Trying another tack: Is there a phone I can use? He was expecting me, and I’d hate to be late without informing him as to why.

Don’t you have one of those fancy personal phones you can use?

She produced one and jiggled it as if the deed might reveal the sound of some loose piece. Like the GPS, it’s been having trouble out here.

The attendant’s tone was growing tougher and tougher. He was clearly tired of the pestering questions. Too bad. But no, I don’t have a phone.

No?

No.

Not even for emergencies?

Town’s not far. I can walk it if need be. If I can’t, I won’t be making any calls anyway. He leaned in close. It isn’t quite so dangerous out here.

The woman pursed her lips, amused. I’m going to be honest with you, – her eyes darted down to the man’s nametag – Gunther. If I didn’t know better, I would think you had some ulterior motive for keeping me out of those woods. Something other than a simple concern for my safety.

You’re free to think whatever you want, ma’am, but you’ll be wrong on two counts if you do.

Two counts?

The name’s not Gunther.

Her eyes flickered. His was an icy stare.

That’ll be $16.18. Coffee included.

Without looking, she pulled out a single bill and slapped it into his awaiting palm. Her face was masked with an arrogant expression, saying I don’t need to count it and I don’t need change. I know it’s more money than you were expecting or have ever seen at one time.

The man did not care to inspect it either, having caught the denomination as she passed it over. His expression did not waver. He would offer her no more assistance. He would not hinder her. He was done with her completely. With a simple customer service goodbye, he returned to the store’s interior without a second thought.

Cynthia Walker, meanwhile, watched him go. She had looked for any sign that he might know her, but the only literature within the establishment had been old magazines and bent-backed novels – no newspapers. No television either. He might just be some grumpy, old attendant with a hand-me-down pair of overalls; a purchase from a second-hand store. Or he might be a spy for Mr. Brightmore, an early warning system for anyone coming and going from his little kingdom.

She shot a quick glance and found the man slipping into position behind the counter. She could not see a phone, nor did she expect him to be foolish enough to pull one out until she was driving away.

Or you might just be paranoid, she thought. She shook her head, as much to clear her thoughts as to keep herself awake. Damn jetlag.

You’re only paranoid if you’re wrong, she grumbled to herself. She ripped a key sideways, roaring the engine to life. Reviewed the conversation. Compared it to the one she had at the car rental place hours back. Peeled out onto the road, kicking gravel spitefully. Did not glance over as she left. Did not double back and turn around.

With the money safely deposited in the register, the attendant sauntered back to the front door, leaned himself on the door frame, and watched the glinting bumper of the car shrink into the distance. Watched up until the point that it was swallowed up by the darkness between the trees of that old, misty country, expecting, for one reason or another, never to see her again.

HAZE

---

JULY 7th

---

My report is missing from the archives. Something is wrong.

After contacting UNMET-IT_Worker, the only likely scenario they could offer was that some routine cache maintenance cleared it away. It happens sometimes to bottom-priority reports, UNMET-IT_Worker claimed.

Contacting MANAG-Roderick proved equally fruitless. He claimed he did not remember it; after I reminded him of how he had disregarded it, he simply stated that explains why. I showed great restraint.

I shall continue on with the research on my own time. There is enough to do at work without it. I have a more complete copy at home anyway (foresight/instinct serves me once again).

---

JULY 19th

---

My personal copies, all the various clippings and hints that I had managed to scrounge up, are missing. The binder displayed openly on the bookshelf in my study was empty except for a single piece of paper; even the label on its spine had been scraped clean off, without the slightest hint of adhesive residue typical of the brand I use.

After all traces of my searches had disappeared from JOB, I cannot say I am surprised. Disappointed, sure. We are in the business of secrets, and my tenure at JOB should have granted me all available access to a mystery such as that Old, Misty Country. I thought so, at least. But as noted previously, they are acting as though they have no idea what I am talking about, that the report (let alone the place itself) does not exist. It was, of course, a dramatic escalation from the previous session where they called it merely fiction, a conclusion made when a casual investigation yielded no further details. That was half of the reason why I started collecting evidence on my own.

The break-in must have been a professional job. Admirable in a way; I might appreciate it more were not the situation such a problem for me. None of my locks were damaged, not a trace of the intruders was left behind, none of the digital recorders left a sign of tampering or corruption. The cameras show no one entering or leaving. The binder on the shelf can be seen prominently in frame on Camera S-3 the entire time. Again, admirable.

GF-Delilah claims no one entered the apartment and that she remained inside the entire day. The cameras seem to back her story and I would love to believe her. It does not explain the disappearance of my research though. Knocking her out, then doctoring the apartment’s analytics to show no entry would be hard enough. Altering her memory on top of everything else? Impossible. It’s not something we could do, and if not us, then no one. So that leaves only two possibilities: she is either lying or I am going crazy. The evidence suggests the former.

I never involved her in my research, but that does not mean she could not have found out about it somehow. If she were approached, and convinced to help out...

She denies having been knocked out, that she did not even take a nap on the day in question. I saw no visible symptoms of either occurrence.

I find it more troubling that the backup data has also been removed. The binder was the primary collection, filled with all possibilities - satellite mappings, odd references which may have related to the place, and a copy of the initial travelogue, of course - along with a selection of false positives included just in case anyone thought to snoop around at my progress (the only difference between paranoia and caution is how right you are). They should never have been able to find the more complete, filtered backup. That is what worries me.

While prejudiced against the idea, I doubt it is a matter of me going crazy. My memory is clear - no hazy recollections of the information I gathered; no confusion related to it. GF-Delilah does recall a change in my behavior, though nothing she considered too strange; a preoccupation with some work (typical - her words). And the existence of the binder cannot be disputed.

Whoever it was, they left a simple warning behind, a tangible piece of evidence that it is all too real (however improbable): the binder was completely cleared of my own documents, but a single page had been inserted in their place.

It reads: You were not supposed to have this.

I intend to have the page analyzed for any possible leads, but I expect nothing will come of it.

---

JULY 20th

---

Confronted Delilah - she left. Security systems reformatted afterward (they were due, post-intrusion).

ENEMY OF MY ENEMY

The mood was ruined.

A gentle breeze fluttered the silken drapes, rippling shadows along the open floor and stirring the scent of jasmine from the candles settled throughout the expansive room. The twinkling of the windchime melded with a CD of ambient ocean sounds. Paint had been applied to canvas, enough that the white beneath faltered against the overwhelming spread of creative expression; wild unmanaged colors, ready to be reined into a recognizable form (if only in part). The groove had just been achieved. But the phone rang. A double take confirmed it to be the landline. Connor Douglas could do nothing but scowl. That meant only one thing.

He took his time descending from his room. All mental preparation, as his pants were still smeared uncaringly with paint. His cheek and, now hidden beneath a shirt freshly dawned, his chest. The candles were blown out. The music left to finish without an audience.

His parents were not waiting for him on the stairs. He slowed, stepping casually. Lost in thought. Delaying the reunion. He was not looking forward to it, even less than normal. A glimpse of life in the front hall. Figures paused. With a sigh, he proceeded toward them.

They were waiting as though they had just arrived, standing close to the phone by the door. Their lack of luggage betrayed it as all for show. He wondered when they had really entered; he missed them driving in, but he often missed the sound of the car engine when he was up on the third floor, even with his window open. That was why they had the phones installed. He was to come down, always.

His father stood at attention, unwilling to engage with anything more than his eyes as Connor approached. His arms were behind his back, chest puffed out, chin high. His stepmother hung off the man’s side, trying to entangle herself with one of his arms. She was all smiles and fluttering lashes. All the charm of a bubbly twenty-something. It might have had an effect – on either of them, or both – if they were unprepared, unfamiliar.

Welcome home, father, Connor said flatly. The words were expected as a ritualistic beginning. He stood in front of him and imagined how he might have saluted were his feelings different. Opposite. Regrettably, his eyes slipped a little, giving the woman a small glance; he barely caught her grin widen in response.

Pleasantries were exchanged. The trip was discussed, in so far as the successes were boasted of and the failures raged at. Connor did not bother feigning interest. His father tolerated it; his bodily presence was required, not his heart. The whole while, the trio remained fixed in their designated places within the front hall.

And how have things been with you, son? his father asked. Commanded. Another ritualistic code. He did not care how his son’s schoolwork was progressing, his socializing, his worries or joys. He wanted to know about life – not necessarily his – within that old, misty country. And one life above all others.

There isn’t much to say I am afraid, Connor offered. He’s remained as busy as ever, though I cannot say with what. He came to the school once, after classes. Interrupted some parent-teacher conference one of his employees was having. The woman’s daughter had been acting up before, but no longer. I imagine he straightened everything out.

As he often does, Mr. Douglas grumbled.

I suppose so. The agreement was a mistake. His father’s scowl worsened. His stepmother’s grin widened, and she bit her lip hungrily.

What was the girl’s name?

Mimiko. Mimiko Talzman. She was caught reading a book in class, from what I hear.

A book, you say? His father’s hands slipped from behind his back. Shaken loose, his stepmother paced a few steps away as the man was consumed in thought. Connor kept a close eye on her, twisting slightly to do so.

Do you know what became of it? Connor turned back to an agitated expression. Mr. Douglas barked, Do you know what happened to the book?

I think she was allowed to keep it.

Mr. Douglas harumphed. Then demanded the rest of it. The rumors and the gossip. What might be consequential. The interrogation lasted nearly an hour. The stepmother lingered nearby, posing here and there, without any semblance of being bored.

And that is everything then? The final ritualistic code.

Yes, father. Connor began to turn, expecting the finishing remark, that freeing phrase that would see him back in his room again.

And what about the Basin of Urduardi? his patriarch shouted instead.

The– what? The name caught him off-guard.

His stepmother strode up to him, her high heels clacking out sharp echoes into the high ceiling above them, each step sounding through the railings around the second and third floors until the sound returned almost as a whisper among a watching gallery. She easily spun a familiar ceramic bowl in front of her, twisting it in all manner of directions so he might get a good look at every detail – the two-foot diameter, the jagged triangular border along the top and the bottom, the crude figures caught in between. Spun it around until she finally presented its interior. Her smile was showing teeth now, perfect white biters displayed in a silent laugh.

Connor grimaced at the sight of it. The bowl (though the smile was little welcome). It should have been expected that the whole display was a farce. But they made it seem like they had just arrived, and the bowl was too massive to stay hidden, not in the open expanse of the front hall. She had pulled it out of nowhere. It would have been reasonable to assume that they had not found it yet. The old and forgotten acquisition, it should not have mattered if he used it.

His eyes were transfixed by the ruddy stain and the chip on the edge. His father shouted again, startling him. He looked to the man and found him not one step closer. But he was leaning forward.

Explain this, he hissed.

I had some people over and we tried a little ritual. Nothing came of it. He winced.

His stepmother knew he was lying, and with a glance, so did his father. He marched in close and snatched Connor by the