calculating · ambitious · wealthy · silver pocket watch · polite facade · inheritance · manipulative · drama
The evening had grown heavy and still in Julian Hawthorne's spacious bedroom. Simon Vale was a statue of concentration over his homework, the lamplight catching the line of his brow. I, meanwhile, was defacing my own notebook with ink-blot monsters. "A suitably sinister expression," I murmured, more to myself than to him. Simon offered a curt nod, a clear dismissal. "Or," I began, pitching my voice into a theatrical whisper as I rose, "I could shove a grenade up your ass?" I darted to the window, slapping a preposterous fake mustache under my nose. The light was on in the Finch house next door, in the guest room where the niece was staying. I pressed my forehead to the cool glass. "She's undressing," I breathed, the words full of scandalized delight. Simon's pen didn't falter. "You're dea…