Page 23 of Her Dreadful Will

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An odd smell hung in the air as they stepped up to the doors of the restaurant. Soleil wrinkled her nose, but determined she wouldn’t mention it.

“Damn.” Dr. Gilliam coughed. “Let’s hope it smells better inside.”

He opened the door, and the reassuring aroma of sizzling onions and roasting meat wafted out. But when Dr. Gilliam asked about their reservation, there was no record of it. The hostess eyed them languidly, waving them to a bench to wait while she plucked a wad of glistening gum from her mouth and wrapped it in a napkin, which she then set on top of her station.

“I promise I made a reservation.” Dr. Gilliam sighed, checking the time on his phone.

“It’s fine, really.” Soleil swiveled on the bench so her body was angled toward him. “We can chat while we wait. First of all—your name. Your website and your sign just list you as A. L. Gilliam.”

“I’m Achan,” he said. “And no, not like Clay Aiken. Like the Achan of biblical times, the one who craved the cursed treasure and died for it.”

There it was again—the gleam in his eyes, the one from last night. A wicked delight, as if he relished the story behind his name, and defied its lessons. Like his frayed gloves, the intense expression clashed with his decorous appearance. As if his air of polite calm were a barely cooled shell over a molten center.

“Achan,” repeated Soleil. “Well, you already know my name. In fact, you know a lot more about me than I do about you.”

His gaze sharpened. “What do you mean?”

“The forms from last night—my name, address, birth date, medical history—”

“Ah, yes.” Was it her imagination or did he seem relieved? “You’re a self-employed business owner with no local physician, and your emergency contact is someone in Japan?”

“My parents. They’re traveling right now. When I graduated from high school, they decided they were going to sell everything and see the world, like they’ve always wanted to.”

“So many people talk about traveling the world.” Achan’s eyes held hers. “Not many actually do it.”

“Yes, well—” She cleared her throat. She had played a role in their decision, calming her mother’s concerns about the dangers of travel and giving her father the will to transition to a work-from-anywhere job instead of the one he’d held for fifteen years. It was a necessary kindness, otherwise they would never have gone. They would have slipped into old age, regretful that they hadn’t followed those dreams. Soleil’s interference had been a gift.

“They’re in Japan for a few months, and they love it. They’re drinking it all in, probably being the typical American tourists—but in the sweetest way.” She smiled to herself, picturing her mother’s wide-eyed enthusiasm for other cultures, her father’s big-hearted zeal for making new friends. They embraced every aspect of each nation they visited with a delighted passion that no one could seem to resist. “Seriously, it’s impossible to be mad at them. I’ve seen people try.”

“I believe it.” He shifted to face her more directly, his stiff manner softening. “They must be charming. It’s not every couple who would name their daughter after the sun itself.”

She winced. “It’s not the easiest name to live with.”

“Hey, you’re talking to someone named ‘Achan.’” He chuckled. “Trust me, I get it.”

The hostess rapped on her station. “Got a table for you. Booth okay?”

She didn’t pause for an answer, stalking ahead of them into the dining room.

The wood of the booths and tables gleamed rich amber, and the blue carpet looked new, but the art on the walls was all cheap-looking prints, and Soleil noticed tiny brown water spots on the ceiling and a larger brown spot in one corner. Thankfully it wasn’t directly over the booth where the hostess seated them.

Achan had to ask for menus. “Not the greatest customer service here,” he commented after the hostess left.

Soleil eyed the tips of his thin fingers. Were there lines on his skin, patterns or designs peeking out from beneath those gloves?

Almost immediately he set the menu down, tucking his hands under the table. “So, tell me about your business.”

She rattled off her usual promo spiel about the thrift shop, but halfway through her speech, she remembered something.

His volisphere.

She had suppressed her affinity temporarily, but it was still there, a submerged sense ready to resurface the moment she tapped into it. Inadvertently she’d felt the hostess’s sphere, a six-foot bubble of boredom; but Soleil hadn’t ventured into it.

And still there was nothing from Achan at all.

Tentatively, she brought her affinity to the surface again and reached out, tendrils of her consciousness probing toward him.

Nothing.