Constantine Capers: The Pennington Perplexity by Natalie Brianne (new ebook reader TXT) 📕

this time? She heard a rustling coming from the room. She’d see his response soon. Her anxiety rose with each passing minute. The light filtering through the window intensified. The clock on the mantel ticked bit by bit, bringing the future into the present. The door to his room opened.

He came out with bags under his eyes and a bit of an unsteady gait. His messy hair fell into his eyes. He fiddled with his tie, trying to straighten it. He looked up from it and saw her. His brow furrowed.

“How did you get in here?”

“Through the door.” She glanced over at the front entry. She blew a strand of hair out of her face. Once again, it was going to be a harsh remembering this morning.

“Are you a client of mine?”

“No. I’m your secretary.”

“I don’t have a secretary.”

“Well, you do. You see if you just read your journal—”

“I don’t keep a journal. It’s easy enough to remember things from day to day. Anything important can go into my filing system.”

“Well actually—”

“I’m afraid I have a case to solve so I’m going to have to ask you to—”

“Listen to me!” Her voice rose higher than she meant it to. She could feel her face flushing as she stood. Based on the stunned look on Byron’s face, his attention was fully on her.

“You have a problem with your short-term memory. You think you are going to go follow a lead to find the Order of Circe today, but you aren’t! It’s been years since that time. You hired me several weeks ago to help you with your memory. To make sure you read your journal every day. That is why I am here.” He considered her for a moment and then shook his head.

“You are either mistaken or, forgive me for my brashness, insane.”

“Insane?” She laughed. “I thought about this long and hard last night and I concluded that I’m as sane as you are Byron. Read your journal.”

“I don’t have one.”

“Let me find it for you.”

“You won’t find anything.”

“Then will it hurt for me to look?”

He pondered on that sentence, studied her face and then shook his head.

“Then excuse me while I do so.” She started at the piano, checking inside of the bench and then on the windowsill. Then she checked around the armchair, under the couch, in the side tables and on the mantel. He watched her with a sort of peeved curiosity for a few minutes before stepping forward and grabbing her arm.

“I’m guessing you aren’t finding it. Why don’t we—”

“I’m not finished yet.”

She pulled away from him and went into the kitchen. She checked every cupboard and counter before moving up the stairs and into his office. She checked every bookcase for it, every drawer. She checked the guest room. She came back down the stairs and found him standing in front of his bedroom door.

“Excuse me, Byron.”

“If you haven’t found it yet, then you won’t. I’ve been a good sport and let you have your fun, but I’m afraid I can’t allow you to search my room. I must ask you to leave before I contact the authorities.”

“Go ahead and get Inspector Thatcher here. He knows I’m telling the truth.”

She pushed past him into his room and started to look. He grabbed her shoulder to pull her back and then thought otherwise. He stepped back against the wall to watch her. She checked in his closet, his dresser, under the bed, on the side table. Then she saw the trunk. She moved over and pulled on the lid. Locked.

“Where’s the key to this?”

“Now you are going too far.”

“Byron, this is important. Crucial even. If we don’t find that journal you will have lost all your memories from the last year. All your memories of each case. Of the people you’ve met.” She thought of herself as she spoke, and her voice cracked. “Please.” He studied her again and then went to his dresser. He opened a drawer and pressed a loosened piece of wood on it. The bottom of the drawer popped open, and he grabbed a small key. He moved over and opened the trunk. “Look, but don’t touch.”

She looked inside. There were several leather-bound journals on the top of some old clothes and papers. His eyes widened.

“These weren’t here before.”

“These are your journals, Byron.”

He picked one of them up and looked through it.

“This doesn’t make any sense. How did you know about this?”

“As I told you before, I’m your secretary. Now we just need to find your current journal.” She picked one of them up and started to look through it. He grabbed it out of her hands and snapped it shut.

“I think if these are mine you shouldn’t be looking through them.”

“Byron—”

“Who are you?”

“Mira. My name is Mira.” She could feel herself getting desperate and tried to keep her voice steady.

“Very well, Mira. Now you say that you are my secretary. You also say that I have short term memory loss. But that doesn’t give you leave to look through my journals.”

“I just need to see the first page of each. Then I can tell you which one is your current one.”

“Just the first page?”

“Yes.”

He thought about it a moment and then stepped aside. She picked up the first journal and looked at the first page. No note. She picked up the next one. No note. She looked at the first page of each. None of them were right. She set the last one back into the chest.

“Well?” Byron looked annoyed.

“It isn’t there.”

“That’s what I thought. I’m afraid I really should turn you over to the police. Obviously, you—” She interrupted him.

“Then let’s get there quickly. Get ready. I’ll wait in the front room.” She walked past his stunned silence and closed the bedroom door behind her. She took a deep breath. He didn’t remember her. He wouldn’t remember her. His journal was gone. She went down the stairs and took a seat on her sofa in the sitting room. Of course,