Page 73 of Blind Prophet

“Come on.” He hops up.

“What?”

“Let’s go.”

“What?” Is he kicking me out?

“There’s something you need to see.” He steps forward and offers me his hand. “And no, I’m not asking you to leave. I’ve no intention of letting you leave until we’ve worked through what matters. Your investigation? I’ll comply. Let’s get this done so we can move on to what really matters.”

I could argue that a multipronged attack aimed at destabilizing the United States and allied countries is a matter of great importance, but I hold that argument back, curious about what he plans on sharing.

We say little as he leads me to a mudroom and offers me one of his winter coats. He opens a cabinet and pulls out a pair of Hunter rain boots. Women’s rain boots. “We won’t be out long, but these will keep your feet dry.”

“Do you entertain often?”

“Perhaps as often as you cuddle.”

Nice.

It’s a quiet trip on the paved path to his father’s house. We’re in a golf cart with closed-in sides and rugged wheels. The vehicle is essentially a battery-operated car, scaled to drive on golf cart paths.

He parks on the side of his father’s mansion and sets the parking brake.

“You can’t share what I’m about to show you.”

“I’m on a team.”

“The NDA you signed is still in effect.”

I’d like to see him hold me to an NDA I signed a decade ago.An NDA that should’ve been your first warning sign. Hindsight’s always twenty-twenty.

I cross my arms, scowling.

“Fine. You can tell your team back in California. I’ll do what’s needed to remove my father and me from your persons of interest list.” He spits out the phrase as if it’s poison. “But nothing in the media. Agreed?”

“Agreed.” I hate the media as much as he does. Possibly more.

He opens the side door, and the silence in the stately mansion is deafening.

We quietly wander through vaguely familiar halls, our footfalls serving as the only sound. The massive traditional mountain home was built decades ago, but one of Halston’s wives made this compound her personal project. From a security standpoint, it’s challenging—multiple access points, too many spaces to monitor effectively. From a design perspective, it’s a mishmash, but the overarching theme is of a proud hunter.

When Dorian first brought me here, he said the place tucked away, outside of Telluride, can sleep over thirty people. On one of these floors is an unforgettable library, complete with a view of snow-capped mountains and a roaring fireplace.

Dorian stops outside a door and hesitates, almost as if he’s listening.

“If he’s sleeping, we won’t wake him.” He looks to me as if asking for agreement.

I nod, but I don’t recall Dorian ever being concerned in this way for his father.

Is Halston sick? Is that the secret?

The door opens, and the first thing I’m drawn to is the wall of windows and the stunning view. There’s an executive desk, possibly one of the largest I’ve ever seen, against one wall, positioned to take in the mountain view. Near a fireplace, there are two plush leather chaise lounges, and Halston Moore is reclining on one, with a luxurious mink blanket thrown over his legs. A book is in his lap, but his eyes are closed.

He’s aged since I saw him last—deeper wrinkles and a shrunken frame. The black hair dye—a single tone with unprofessional application—suggests either declining attention to detail or reduced access to his usual services.

The suit jacket crinkles around his shoulders, slightly too big for his narrow width, and his shirt collar gaps around his neck. The knot in the tie is larger, reminiscent of the 1970s style. The black sheen on his thinned hair seems unnatural, and I’m not sure if it’s the deep black or the singular tone that makes the color appear so unnatural. His lips are dry and cracked, and his cheeks have hollowed.

Who is dressing him these days?

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