“The eyes were so like—yet also very not like—her dad’s. No question where he’d gotten his looks. She still had the bones, the bearing. There were lines etched in the face and the hair had gone gray without obvious interference. She sat ramrod straight in the chair, both gnarled hands resting on the impressive head of finely crafted cane. If Nell had seen her, instead of St Cyr, she’d have known from whence her DNA hailed. Unlike her husband, she didn’t call up vegetable images. Nell might h...ave mulled trees, tall, stately ones with creepy twists, but she didn’t dare blink, let alone mull anything. If looks could kill, grandma would have managed it. Alex standing like a rock at her back helped some. Kind of funny that the old lady was accessorized with two bodyguards. Or maybe not. She must have trust issues after yesterday. The artist in Nell picked out the differences in the tall, lean, cliché-clones in dark suits. They periodically scanned for threats with creepy intent, but mostly they glared at Alex.MoreLessRead More Read Less
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