Unravel Me: The Juliette Chronicles Book 2

This is the wrong street—we’re supposed to be two streets down—”
    “But this house—it’s—I mean, Kenji, someone lives here—”
    “No one lives here,” he says. “Someone probably set this up to throw us off—in fact, I bet that house is lined with C4. It’s probably a trap designed to catch people wandering unregulated turf. Now come on”—he yanks at my hand again—“we have to hurry. We have seven minutes!”
    And even though we’re running forward, I keep looking back, waiting to see some sign of life, waiting to see someone step outside to check the mail, waiting to see a bird fly by.
    And maybe I’m imagining it.
    Maybe I’m insane.
    But I could’ve sworn I just saw a curtain flutter in an upstairs window.

THIRTY-THREE
    90 seconds.
    The real 1542 Sycamore is just as dilapidated as I’d originally imagined it would be. It’s a crumbling mess, its roof groaning under the weight of too many years’ negligence. Adam and Kenji and I are standing just around the corner, out of sight even though we’re technically still invisible. There is not a single person anywhere, and the entire house looks abandoned. I’m beginning to wonder if this was all just an elaborate joke.
    75 seconds.
    “You guys stay hidden,” I tell Kenji and Adam, struck by sudden inspiration. “I want him to think I’m alone. If anything goes wrong, you guys can jump in, okay? There’s too much of a risk that your presence will throw things off too quickly.”
    They’re both quiet a moment.
    “ Damn. That’s a good idea,” Kenji says. “I should’ve thought of that.”
    I can’t help but grin, just a little. “I’m going to let go now.”
    “Hey—good luck,” Kenji says, his voice unexpectedly soft. “We’ll be right behind you.”
    “Juliette—”
    I hesitate at the sound of Adam’s voice.
    He almost says something but seems to change his mind. He clears his throat. Whispers, “Promise you’ll be careful.”
    “I promise,” I say into the wind, fighting back emotion. Not now. I can’t deal with this right now. I have to focus.
    So I take a deep breath.
    Step forward.
    Let go.
    10 seconds and I’m trying to breathe
    9
    and I’m trying to be brave
    8
    but the truth is I’m scared out of my mind
    7
    and I have no idea what’s waiting for me behind that door
    6
    and I’m pretty sure I’m going to have a heart attack
    5
    but I can’t turn back now
    4
    because there it is
    3
    the door is right in front of me
    2
    all I have to do is knock
    1
    but the door flies open first.
    “Oh good,” he says to me. “You’re right on time.”

THIRTY-FOUR
    “It’s refreshing, really,” he says. “To see that the youth still value things like punctuality. It’s always so frustrating when people waste my time.”
    My head is full of missing buttons and shards of glass and broken pencil tips. I’m nodding too slowly, blinking like an idiot, unable to find the words in my mouth either because they’re lost or because they never existed or simply because I have no idea what to say.
    I don’t know what I was expecting.
    Maybe I thought he’d be old and slumped and slightly blind. Maybe he’d be wearing a patch on one eye and have to walk with a cane. Maybe he’d have rotting teeth and ragged skin and coarse, balding hair and maybe he’d be a centaur, a unicorn, an old witch with a pointy hat anything anything anything but this. Because this isn’t possible. This is so hard for me to understand and whatever I was expecting was wrong so utterly, incredibly, horribly wrong.
    I’m staring at a man who is absolutely, breathtakingly beautiful.
    And he is a man .
    He has to be at least 45 years old, tall and strong and silhouetted in a suit that fits him so perfectly it’s almost unfair. His hair is thick, smooth like hazelnut spread; his jawline is sharp, the lines of his face perfectly symmetrical, his cheekbones hardened by life and age. But it’s his eyes that make all the difference. His eyes are the most spectacular things I’ve ever seen.
    They’re almost aquamarine.
    “Please,” he says, flashing me an incredible smile. “Come in.”
    And it hits me then, right in that moment, because everything suddenly makes sense. His look; his stature; his smooth, classy demeanor; the ease with which I nearly forgot he was a villain— this man .
    This is Warner’s father.
    I step into what looks like a small living room. There are old, lumpy couches settled around a tiny coffee table. The