The Pawn of the Phoenix (The Memory Collector Series Book 2) Read Online Free PDF Page A

Mrs. Anderson.
    “I’m Detective Keenan Edwards and–”
    “No,” she says sharply, lifting her head high. “I told you my son needs a few days. He’s in no condition to be harassed.”
    “Mrs. Anderson I assure you–”
    “I’m sorry Mr. Edwards, but I’m going to have to ask you to leave.” She lifts her head higher to make her point clear.
    The detective’s confusion swirls with mine, overwhelming the room with its potency. Obviously the woman wasn’t the one to send us the message.
    A young man appears in the hallway behind her, and the resemblance is unmistakable. “Calm down, mother. I’m the one who sent for them.”
    Mrs. Anderson’s head snaps back to face the young man. “Andrew–”
    He holds up a hand to cease his mother’s protests, and I notice the glass of liquor in his other hand. “Please, mother, I’d rather get it over with now.”
    She closes her mouth and steps out of our way. Rather than taking a sip, Andrew tilts his head back and swallows the rest of his alcohol in one gulp. I glance at Keenan uncertainly, wondering if this isn’t the best time to question Andrew considering he’s been drinking.
    Andrew’s voice cuts through my thoughts. “Are you coming inside, Detective?”
    Keenan glances one last time at Mrs. Anderson before heading toward Andrew. He doesn’t notice when she frowns heavily or when her eyes glaze over with the beginnings of tears. The Elite have only briefly informed her there is an empath persuading its victims to kill, so she’s frightened for her son’s safety. For some bizarre reason, I feel compelled to offer this stranger consolation for her loss. But when she glares at me, I recover my sanity and ignore her. She doesn’t want my comfort or my pity.
    When I reach the two men, Andrew’s eyes skim over me in mild interest before he walks into the room. Thankfully, he didn’t inherit his father’s black eyes. Instead, they’re a warm brown—almost like the rich colour of the liquor he’s drinking.
    As I follow him into the room, a wave of nausea grips me and forces me to reach out to the nearest stable thing. Unfortunately, it happens to be the detective. It takes me a moment to recover, and I slowly release my death grip on his shirt. The anguish I had smelled in the foyer is more concentrated in this room, its source standing near the decanter of liquor. I hate misery. I can tolerate any other emotion, but sorrow—that gut-wrenching despair that eats away at the soul? Well, that sort of emotion is like a vacuous force; it swallows the life around it until there’s nothing left but an empty carcass. And Andrew is drowning in it, the scent potent enough to mask the stench of liquor and cigarettes clinging to his body.
    Andrew glances at Keenan, a bottle of liquor in his hand. “Care for a drink, Detective?”
    “No, thank you.”
    The young man turns those caramel brown eyes on me expectantly, and I quickly shake my head. He shrugs and pours himself another glass. “Please, sit.”
    The detective and I each sit in a chair, while Andrew sits on the sofa across from us. He rests his glass on the table between us and proceeds in lighting a cigarette. His sack coat has been long abandoned and the sleeves of his shirt are rolled up—even his collar is undone. He looks remarkably like a younger version of Mr. Anderson, but he has his mother’s eyes, even if they are currently bloodshot. His clothes are wrinkled, and I suspect he has slept in them—if he slept at all last night. He exhales slowly, opaque tendrils of smoke slithering out of his nostrils and mouth, and looks at the detective.
    “So what do you want to know?”
    “Tell us about last night, Andrew. Why did you go see your father?”
    “I thought he wanted to speak with me.” The man pauses to pull on the cigarette with his lips before continuing. “I was at the club when I received a message that my father wished to see me. I took my time, of course. I resented him for