The Last of August by Brittany Cavallaro

Author:Brittany Cavallaro
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: HarperCollins
Published: 2016-12-07T16:00:00+00:00

eight

WE MADE IT BACK TO HOLMES’S ROOM AROUND MIDNIGHT to find August Moriarty waiting at the door, hat literally in hand.

“Where’s Nathaniel?” she asked him, an edge already in her voice.

“I let him go,” he said.

She started, like she was keeping herself from lunging at him. “You ask for my trust, for all of our trust, and then you go and drag away the man I want to question and you announce yourself and everything you know to Hadrian Moriarty and—”

“We didn’t see Hadrian. My brother’s gone to ground, Holmes,” August said. “I don’t know where he is. Nathaniel doesn’t know where he is. And neither does Milo, though his being on a red-eye flight does limit his resources somewhat.”

“So why did that compel you to let Nathaniel go?” I asked him. “We have a stack of invoices here, for forgeries Nathaniel’s students made that he sold to your older brother. We have a business card for David Langenberg, Leander’s alias that we found in Nathaniel’s apartment. And you let him rabbit? Just like that?”

“Because he doesn’t know where Leander is,” August said, “and this has never been about the Langenberg paintings. I don’t care what you found.”

“You’re sure he doesn’t know.” Holmes took a step toward him. “You’re sure.”

August shook his head, as if trying to clear out noise. “I’m sure.”

“How?” I asked. “How are you being so cavalier about this?”

“I pulled up pictures of Nathaniel’s elderly parents. They’re in a home, north of the city. I had its name within seconds. Its address. I threatened to kill them, tonight, if I even imagined he was lying.” His voice broke. “Do you remember what my last name is? Or do you need an explanation for why he believed me?”

“There’s a link,” I said to Holmes. Anything, anything to defuse this situation. “We have the link. We know your uncle was posing as a Langenberg—”

“We don’t know that,” she said. “We don’t know anything.”

“But—”

“Go to bed, August,” Holmes said, opening her door. She shut it behind us so emphatically it was like she was sealing off a tomb.

“That was loud,” I said.

“There isn’t anything left for us to do tonight. We have to wait until tomorrow.”

“Are you sure?” To my embarrassment, I stifled a yawn.

To my surprise, she turned to look at me. Really look at me, like she was straining to see some faraway sign.

“Watson, you look like hell. Haven’t you been sleeping?”

“Not since October.” I leaned against the wall. It felt good to put my weight against a solid surface. “Is this you saying you’re worried about me, or are you really feeling the hard truths thing tonight?”

Holmes started to snap back a reply, then stopped herself. Very deliberately, she reached up to put her fingers against my face. “I’m worried about you,” she admitted. It didn’t sound practiced, that admission, as it did when August was trying to be nice. Really, I didn’t think either he or Charlotte Holmes were nice, at their core. At their best, they were kind.

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