Lost Contact (The Bridge Sequence Book One), Nathan Hystad [primary phonics books .TXT] 📗

in front of him. “No one asked you to butt into my life, Richard. I appreciate everything you’ve done for me over the years, helping my admission into school and providing references when necessary, but it’s gone on long enough. You’re right. I’m not a child, yet you feel this innate need to treat me like one. I like my job, and I’m not throwing anything away, let alone my life.” He was right about some things. I was still chasing after Dirk Walker, but I wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of admitting it.

Richard relaxed, smiling widely, his teeth white and perfect. “Maybe I have been pushing you a little too much. Why don’t you come in, have a drink, eat some dinner, and enjoy the company of contemporaries for an evening?”

There was something about his tone that had me searching for Marcus over his shoulder. “Fine, but I can’t stay late. Lots of loose ends to tie up.” I realized I hadn’t mentioned going away to Venezuela to him, and at this moment, it was the last thing I wanted to do.

We entered his living room, and I couldn’t believe how many people were in attendance. I should have known by the volume of cars lining the usually quiet street, but I had been more concerned with sneaking in than watching the road. I quickly estimated there were over thirty guests, and our quiet dinner party had turned into something much more.

Jazz music echoed through his wireless speaker system, and I spied at least three servers wearing white dress shirts with black bow ties. One of them arrived with a tray of three-quarter-full champagne glasses, and I gladly took one.

“Would you like some introductions?” Richard asked, but I’d met a few of them before, at summer barbecues or Harvard alumni events he’d dragged me to.

I was about to wave him off when a man I didn’t recognize captured Richard’s attention. I caught the hard stare, the frown, and the puckered lips of a man desperate for a discussion. “I’ll be back shortly, Rex. Don’t forget to meet Genevieve Belcourte. She’s the one…”

He must have noticed my expression firming again, and he stopped midsentence, walking toward the bald man across the room. I watched them as I sipped the champagne. Richard leaned in while the man whispered something to him, and they both turned, exiting the room, heading toward Richard’s staircase.

“Quite the place.” Marcus startled me.

“Sure. He’s the definitive host,” I muttered.

“Did you try the crab puffs? And this bubbly is killer,” Marcus said.

I glanced at his t shirt, with its obscure joke about computer coding half-covered by the sport coat I’d made him bring. “I think we should go.”

Being here felt fake, and all I could concentrate on was the car trailing me for the last while and how badly I wanted to fly to Venezuela to investigate our lead. Even if it turned out to be nothing, I had to know, and it was being funded by a man who could afford the loss.

“We just got here,” Marcus protested.

I was curious what had caused Richard to rush out of the room, leaving his guests, but his wife didn’t seem to notice, casually conversing with her friends, floating from one to another like a feather in the wind. She ended up approaching as I set my glass on a curio cabinet. A woman lingered behind her, and our gazes met. Her silky auburn hair was captivating, and she stepped around Janelle, jutting her small hand out.

“I’ve heard so much about you,” she said in a rush. “Terri. Terri Prophet.”

I didn’t know the name. “Pleased to meet you.” I shook her hand, finding it warm, like she’d just been cradling a cup of coffee.

“I read your paper on the Bering Land Bridge when I was in my senior year. It changed my understanding of migration patterns,” she said.

“Oh, you were the one that read it,” I joked, catching a glint in her eyes.

“I’ll leave you to talk,” Janelle said, and a moment later, she was gone, chatting with the next guest.

The room was sizable, tall ceilings with enormous windows overlooking the backyard, and wood crackled in the giant fireplace centering the room. A couch faced it, and no one was seated there, leaving it open. Terri motioned for us to sit, and I watched Marcus wiggle his eyebrows and take off, holding another champagne flute.

“Do you have a moment to chat? I’d love to pick your brain,” she said.

She was striking, her dark blue eyes widening as if awaiting my response. “Sure. That would be nice.” The sofa was firm and uncomfortable, like everything in a formal living space, but the heat from the fireplace made up for it. “What do you do, Terri?”

Color rose in her neck, but I pretended not to notice. “I’m a TA, working in Doctor Klein’s department.”

“And how do you like it there?” I asked.

“It’s great. I’m hoping to teach at Harvard one day, after I earn my doctorate.”

My attention was drawn to the opposite edge of the room, where the shorter bald man had returned without Richard. He peered around the living space, his eyes glazing over the guests, and when he saw me, his head stopped turning. He continued on, feigning the action, but I sensed he’d been looking for me. Something was off. He lifted his arm, taking a drink from a server, his suit jacket sleeve sliding up his wrist. Even from this far away, I could make out the symbol: a three-pointed half-star. This man belonged to the Believers.

“Terri, it’s been lovely, but I have to be going.” I stood, but not so quickly as to draw attention to myself.

“Oh. I’m sorry to hear that.”

Marcus was near the dining room, sampling more food, and I walked over, clutching his elbow. “Time to make our exit,” I whispered.

He didn’t object, and we wound our way past the guests with a few muttered apologies and pressed through the front door. I scanned