All My Broken Dreams (Locksley Hall #1)

Chapter Six

H e was almost shy as he ushered her inside the room and pushed a button that turned on the lights. “Ancient electricity,” he muttered, but she could see that he was proud of his home.

Robbie loved it.

“This is really nice, Deacon. It’s so comfortable! That’s the one great thing about being agoraphobic. I gravitate to snug, little places.”

He chuckled in his throat and helped her out of her coat, taking care with her shoulder. Her coat was hung on a peg behind the door. No closet.

“It suits me well enough, not that I was given a choice. Housing is assigned to the rank-and-file staff and students. It’s cold in the winter and hot in the summer. The plumbing is mercurial, and the hot water gives out if you don’t time your showers down to the last second.”

The room was more spacious than Robbie thought it would be from the outside. It was also older than she expected. The furnishings were antique and worn out like they’d been there since the Great War. The living area was carpeted with a faded area rug that looked Turkish.

There was a cracked leather sofa, an armchair and another chair that was upholstered in a thick material that was patterned with ferns. They were positioned on either side of a gas fire that glowed in an iron grate. The mantel was crowded with books and framed photographs of people from the last century.

The room had a smoky, yellow glow from the antique shades on the lamps. Floor-to-ceiling bookshelves lined the walls, filled with books, and there were more books piled on small tables in every corner of the room. It was a strange room, Robbie thought, looking around, trying to identify what was strange about it.

“There’s no technology in here,” she said suddenly. “No television, no computer–nothing from this century. Are you one of those people who refuses to read anything but print? No judgment–I like books too. I’ve just never seen so many in one place that wasn’t a library. You and my brother have that in common. Harry likes to read too.”

Deacon stared at the books like he wasn’t sure how they got there. “I have my phone,” he said mechanically. “I don’t need anything else. Have a seat. I’ll get us something to drink. Are you hungry? I can make you something to eat.”

Fatigue overtook her now that she was safely inside and the door was closed. Robbie felt like she could finally exhale for the first time since leaving her apartment. Her condition kept her in a constant state of anxiety. As soon as she was indoors, her body would react, collapsing with relief.

“I’m starving but I think I’m too wound up to eat. Thanks, anyway.”

She plucked at the massive hole in her tights and touched the crusted blood from where her knee was scraped.

Deacon snapped on a lamp on the side table with a shade made from colored glass. A Tiffany lamp, probably valuable unless it was a reproduction. Her great-grandmother on her father’s side had one in her house. The dark wood paneling seemed to swallow light. He went around the room turning on lamps that were positioned all over the room.

“I have some sherry,” he said. “Or beer. I’d go for the sherry in this instance. I think it helps with shock.”

“I’ve never had sherry. Is it good?”

Laughing, he opened a cabinet on one side of the fireplace and took out a dark blue bottle. “I wouldn’t know. I bought it because that’s what they serve around here at Christmas. In case someone stopped in for a drink, I wanted to be prepared.”

“I guess you have a lot of friends stopping in at all hours.”

The thought made her nervous, but also weirdly jealous.

Deacon handed her a tumbler of amber liquid. “Not really. Mrs. Cameron is my only visitor. Get that down you. Do you need a pain killer? I think I have some paracetamol in the medicine cabinet.”

Robbie shivered when his fingers brushed against hers. The look he gave her was steady and bewildering.

“Your hand is freezing,” he said in a low tone. “You should get out of those wet clothes.”

“It’s just my tights. They’ll dry out in front of the fire.” She took a sip of sherry. It was smooth and hot and went right to her head in the best possible way.

Deacon retreated to a kitchenette off the living room and Robbie leaned back against the leather sofa.

“Is this the entire apartment? Where do you sleep?”

“You’re sitting on it. The sofa pulls out to a bed. The armchair becomes a second bed when I push the ottoman up against it. It’s not comfortable but it’s better than bunking down in the stairwell. Although your suitcase is probably big enough to double as a bed. The bathroom is through that door if you want to get cleaned up. There’s some antibiotic in the cabinet for that cut on your face.”

He indicated a door tucked in an alcove to the left of the kitchenette.

“Do you need help?”

“No, I can manage.”

Considering the circumstances, the girl staring back at her in the bathroom mirror was strangely calm as though resigned to her fate.

The bathroom was compact, functional and clean. White and dark green tiling covered the walls to the half-way mark. The tub and pedestal sink were easily from the 1920s, but the toilet was new. Black and white marble tiled the floor that was partially covered with a bathmat. At least the light over the mirror was bright. Robbie could see what she was doing. The scrape on her cheek was bad, like raw hamburger. A pale green bruise was forming around the eye.

She’d kill for a long, hot soak in the clawfoot bathtub, but that might be taking Deacon’s hospitality too far.

Robbie gently tested her shoulder by rolling it back.

Pain shot through her, pain so bad that she gasped and folded over at the waist to breathe.

Pain killer or she’d never sleep tonight. What did he call it? Paracetamol . Drugs for the shoulder and an antibiotic for the cuts. She had to recover her strength as quickly as possible to find Harry before something bad happened. There was no logic to it, it was just a feeling she had that he was in danger. That maybe he had been taken and was being held against his will.

A glass shelf under the mirror held Deacon’s shaving brush, razor, and a brick of shaving soap. She lifted the soap and brought it to her nose.

It was strangely intimate, touching his things … the things that he touched every day. Like she was invading his privacy. Like she was touching him without him knowing it.

Robbie put the soap back in the dish and opened the medicine cabinet.

There was a brand of pain reliever on the top shelf that was unfamiliar to her but the word paracetamol was on the label. She moved some things around and found the antibiotic cream. She lifted the tube out and behind it was an orange bottle of pills.

Robbie’s breath slowed. She recognized the bottle. It was prescription medication. She had one like it in her suitcase for anxiety. What sort of prescription drug would Deacon Wake need?

“Please don’t be an antipsychotic,” she breathed.

She listened for a moment at the door for signs of life coming from the kitchen. He had music playing and she heard him singing along. He didn’t sound psychotic.

She turned the taps on full and cautiously lifted the bottle from the shelf.

It was a prescription for an antidepressant. That was unexpected. Robbie squinted at the name on the label.

Harry Listowel .

She dropped the bottle like it was on fire. It fell into the sink and bobbed like a cork under the running water.

“Dinner is almost ready,” Deacon called from the kitchen. “It’s nothing fancy. I hope you like tinned beans on toast. It’s a student housing staple.”

“Sounds delicious.”

She dried the bottle off and carefully returned it to the shelf. Her hands were shaking. Her brother’s name stared back at her accusingly. Since when did Harry start taking antidepressants and why? She stared at the bottle, trying to comprehend how it came to be in Deacon’s bathroom. Why didn’t Harry take it with him wherever he had gone?

She couldn’t ask without revealing that she knew what Deacon was hiding. He lied about not knowing Harry. Wake knew him and it followed that he knew what happened to him.

Robbie stared at the bottle with a frigid, sinking heart. Why did she have to look at the label? Everyone knows curiosity killed the cat.

“I love your bathroom,” she said breezily when she returned. “It looks like something out of one of those old movies. You know the ones I mean?”

“Probably not, but it’s from 1923. The university has a philosophy that if it ain’t broke, don’t fix it. No renovation. Take a seat. Sorry I don’t have more to offer. I usually eat out.”

Robbie lifted her fork, trying to remain calm. “Oh? I bet they serve great meals on campus.”

“They do, but not for me. The dining hall is off limits to staff. Faculty and students only. There’s a little pub I go to most evenings.”

The table is a scarred desk with two chairs positioned on either side. Deacon set down two plates of steaming food. He had beer. Robbie looked around for her sherry.

She lifted a forkful to her mouth, convinced she wouldn’t be able to eat a bite, convinced she would choke on the beans just like she was choking on his lies.

But it was delicious. Either she was really hungry or canned beans on toast was the best thing she had ever eaten.

“I’m sure Harry will be back in the morning,” she said evenly. “Don’t you think? I might even hear from him tonight. He’ll probably call as soon as he realizes I’m in the city. If he’s able to, that is.”

“What do you mean?”

The food stuck in her throat. “Well, he could’ve been abducted. There’s no other reason he wouldn’t get in touch with his family–unless he’s being held against his will.”

Deacon poked at his meal with less enthusiasm, but otherwise showed no sign that he was disturbed.

“He’s just missing,” he said. “He probably doesn’t even realize he’s missing. He might be traveling and his phone is out of range. You two sound close. Are you close?”

“He’s my half-brother, three years older than me. We have different biological fathers, but we were raised together. We are close in a way, despite being polar opposites. Harry is super smart and funny. He makes friends everywhere he goes.”

“And you don’t?”

Her face grew hot. “Not so much. I take after my father. Harry never knew his real dad. He died when he was a baby. My mother remarried and my dad adopted Harry.”

“So Listowel is your father’s name.”

“Yes.”

“What was Harry’s family name before he was adopted?”

“I don’t know. My mother never talks about it. I’m not sure that even Harry knows.”

Deacon sat back, carefully wiping his mouth on his napkin, which was really just a paper towel. “Okay, that could be useful to find out. Admission to Locksley is through a family member. If he has family on his father’s side in Scotland and it was through them that he got accepted, they might know where he is.”

Robbie lowered her fork, unable to take another bite. She had to hand it to him. Her savior was a smooth and skillful liar.