Chapter 12
Rikka had made Paul sit in the corner.
“I’m not twelve,” his protest was ignored.
She’d pointed with the tip of her blade, turning into that frozen statue thing she did so well, until he complied.
So, he’d found a barstool—carved from a single block of ebony by the look of it—and moved it into the farthest corner of the kitchen without quite giving himself a hernia.
He sat down to wait.
Paul had always been able to find her when he needed to or, he admitted with some chagrin, when the whim had struck him. This time he’d cracked the GPS application on her phone. She’d had it off, of course, but he had a buddy at the NSA who’d used what he called “the find” which worked even when the phone itself was turned off. He’d reached into the system and read off Rikka’s location.
T
