Incendiary Read Online Free PDF Page A

one, still in black and white. Required attire for Grandma’s staff is black pants and vest with a white shirt for men and a black dress with a white apron for women. The uniforms are the reason I try my best to never wear black and white.
    “Sorry it took so long to show him in,” the maid says. “He needed the lavatory.”
    I lower my lashes to prevent my grimace at the word lavatory . One day, I’m scoping out the staff’s quarters. I bet I’ll find the Helen Sanderson Dictionary on Annoying and Outdated Words, as well as an etiquette book on proper behavior. One rule would be texting is classless communication.
    Grandma hates texts, but I fire off a quick one to her. I don’t know the protocol of a detective overhearing me ratting out his presence to my grandmother via a phone call.
    “This is Detective Stu Jackson.” This maid is a tad friendlier and nods to me. I wish I remembered her name. Grandma just has too many people attending to her every need, for me to know who’s who. Maybe, if I hung around them more, I’d better identify everyone. “Detective, this is Georgiana McCall.”
    Detective Jackson’s gaze falls on my stomach and he lifts a brow, shifting a thick folder he’s holding from one hand to the other. Not liking the way he’s staring at my belly and already on edge, I feel my tension heighten with his suspicious attitude. I can’t pinpoint his age, but he has a rugged, outdoorsy look. He isn’t handsome, but neither can he be called ugly, even though his top lip is thin. With a better look, I decide he has a chicken lip. It’s not only thin but nonexistent.
    I hold back a giggle and deepen my study to have something to concentrate on, other than how freaked I am by his visit.
    Despite that top lip, the detective somehow reminds me of Sam, the doomed tutor Sloane hired for me. Detective Jackson has on a suit and tie while Sam wore trousers, a button-down shirt, and a bowtie. Sam’s face was also more classically handsome, though the shape of the two men’s brows match.
    Why do I find that so weird or relevant?
    Laying the folder on the coffee table, Detective Jackson digs into his jacket and comes out with a small recorder, pen, and notepad. After he sets the items on top of the folder, he puts his hands on his hips and studies me. The placement of his hands pushes his jacket back. I glimpse the badge clipped to his belt, along with a holstered gun.
    I lick my lips and place my cell phone next to me, within easy reach if Grandma responds to my message, then I brush bits of hair behind my ear. Without invitation, he sits on the sofa that I’m allowed to call a sofa, directly across from me.
    “What’s this about?” Doing my best not to fidget, I cross my fingers, hoping Grandma responds. Judging by the size of the folder, this is a serious matter. “Why are you here?”
    “I need to ask you a few questions.” His voice is kinder than expected. My tension isn’t eased.
    “About what?” I squeak out, wincing internally. To stay in control of this situation, I have to keep calm.
    He doesn’t draw out his answer, saying simply, “Sloane Mason.”
    Sloane. Of course, this is about Sloane. After Kiln’s call, I’ve been expecting contact all day. I’ve gotten it, just not the communication I wanted.
    My hands clench and unclench, and one descends toward my stomach. I’d like to freely cradle my belly or rest my hands on it or do the things I’ve seen other pregnant women do, but I don’t have that luxury. Even alone, I’m hesitant. If I get too comfortable touching my belly in private, I’d unconsciously do it around Grandma. Detective Jackson’s gaze hones in on my stomach, strengthening my theory that acknowledging my pregnancy in the smallest way isn’t wise. I shove my hands under my thighs to keep them out of trouble.
    Afraid to speak, I press my lips together. If a detective is here asking about Sloane…What does that mean? Someone found out about our affair and now