Inked

his claws while his little brow wrinkled into a frown. My credit card and a copy of the New York Times were beside him, open to the financial section. Dek and Mal coiled over his shoulder, peering at the screen, occasionally whispering in his ear. Grant followed my gaze. “Stock broker now?”
    I grunted, sipping coffee. “I’m not sure I want to know.”
    Grant picked up the picture of my grandmother. He had said very little about the message, but the line between his eyes had not yet smoothed away. “Remarkable resemblance. Have you spoken with Jack yet?”
    “All the women in my family look the same.” I reached for the FedEx envelope, already torn open. “And no. He’s disappeared again.”
    Jack Meddle. My grandfather. A respected archaeologist and intellectual, who on the surface seemed like nothing more than a cheerful, dapper, eccentric old man who lived above an art gallery in downtown Seattle. But he was even less human than Grant or me—though I was no longer certain if humanity could be judged so simply.
    There was very little in the FedEx envelope—which I had ripped into as soon as I left the hotel and gotten into the car. Contents minimal—just a handwritten letter, read for the first time in the dark, and now here, again, at the kitchen table.
    E.
    I hope this reaches you in time. Be careful. Don’t do anything stupid. And don’t get your hopes up. She’s not Jean. She won’t understand what we went through together. How could she? How could anyone? I don’t care what Jean told you. That was more than sixty years ago. Grandmothers are not their granddaughters, and the dead don’t speak for the living.
    Nor do the living ever listen.
    Best,
Winnie
    As before, the words had a hypnotic effect. I could not stop staring at them. One, in particular.
    Jean .
    Strange, seeing my grandmother’s name written in someone else’s hand.
    Almost as strange as seeing my name typewritten on the back of her photograph.
    I reluctantly gave the letter to Grant. While he read, I twisted in my chair to look at Zee. “I want the story. I want to know what happened. These children who knew my grandmother. Why?”
    Raw and Aaz stopped chewing razor blades. Zee sighed. “Double eyes, double life. Old mother worked undercover.”
    “Undercover,” I echoed. “ Undercover? Are you saying she was a…a spy?”
    Dek made a tittering sound. Zee held his little hand like a gun and blew on his finger. “Kiss. Jean Kiss.”
    I slumped in my chair, drumming my fingers on the table. “For which country?”
    Mal began humming the melody of “America the Beautiful.” Grant coughed, but it sounded suspiciously like laughter. I tried giving him a dirty look, but it was difficult.
    My grandmother, the spy. Of course.
    “So she was in China during World War Two,” I said, chewing over the idea. “Hiding out with Jewish refugees in Shanghai while spying on the Japanese?”
    Grant stared at the letter in his hands. “It would have been easy for her to do. Twelve thousand Jews, plus a million Chinese, crammed into a neighborhood that was approximately one square mile in size? Good place to get lost.”
    “But what does that have to do with what’s happening now? Ernie said they were wrong, that my grandmother tried to warn them about something. And that now it was time to finish what she started.” I looked at Zee, frowning as the little demon’s shoulders twitched. “Sounds like she did more than just spy.”
    “More,” Zee rasped, sharing a long look with the others. But that was all, and he would not meet my gaze, no matter how close I leaned—even when I slipped out of the chair and crawled toward him, on all fours. I pushed down the screen of his laptop. It was almost dawn. I could feel it in my bones. Zee stared at my hand, chewing his bottom lip with sharp teeth.
    Grant set down the letter. “I don’t like this.”
    “Winnie, and the other people she refers to…all of them could be in danger. If nothing else, they’ll know what’s going on. Since the boys aren’t feeling particularly talkative .” Again, I tried to catch Zee’s attention, but no luck. He simply sat, staring at my hand, his gaze finally ticking sideways, thoughtfully, to take in Raw and Aaz. Both of whom were sitting very still, watching us worriedly. Little comfort—but not much of a surprise. I had never been able to rely on the boys for complete answers. Just riddles.
    I sat back on my heels. “There’s a P.O. box