“Hopefully not. I just want to figure out who the fuck was in my house.”
“Wasn’t it Leland?”
“Besides Leland.”
“So when did you come here from Scotland?”
“Eh, ten years ago, probably.”
“Why’d you come here?”
“Same reason you’re involved in this mess.”
Ellis’s nose scrunches adorably. “Because some man wants to take me to Murder Island and beat me up for unknown reasons?”
“No, the other part.”
“The part where you threw me out of a plane? I’m sorry, I seem to mainly focus on the traumas I’ve endured.”
“To find my father.”
“Oh. Did you find him?”
I just grunt, positive that should suffice as an answer, but I should have known better. He’s quite pesky.
“Was that a yes grunt or a no grunt? I know a little Spanish since my mom’s fluent, but I can’t speak the language of noncommittal noises.”
“I found him. Or maybe more accurately, I think he found me,” I say.
He points to the house. “Wait, you think that’s the guy who broke into your house?”
“Maybe.”
“Wouldn’t Leland have noticed the accent?”
“Oh, my father is a conniving man, he can whip out any accent and make himself seem like he belongs. It’s a talent of his.”
“Is it like how you whip out random words you think make you sound more Scottish?”
“Worse.”
“Sounds… rough.”
“Rough is putting it lightly,” I say.
“Was your father an assassin? Is that how you got into this line of work?” Ellis asks as we hurry up to my house.
“He’s a liar, a cheat, a thief, a scumbag, and a killer. But no, he didn’t teach me how to kill like this. I learned how to kill because of it, though. Because, funnily enough, it was better than what he was trying to make me do. Enough of this nonsense. It’s honestly quite boring. I’ve actually never talked about something so boring in my life,” I say as I grab the hidden key and let myself into the house. “Looks like Leland’s already had the window repaired. Awfully nice of him,” I mutter as I notice the new window, sticker still on it. The moment I step into the house, my eyes are drawn to that stupid little basket sitting out in the open. I hurry over and drop a blanket onto it before Ellis can notice.
“I would ask but it’s probably best not to know what you just hid. Was it a weapon? A grenade? If I don’t ask and don’t look, I can pretend it’s nothing more than a basket of daisies.”
“Lots of fucking daisies,” I assure him, which makes him laugh.
“How long have you lived here?” Ellis asks as he looks around.
I eye the space. “Uhh… like six months or so.”
“I… see,” he says as if he doesn’t like my minimalistic approach. “You’re using a large Amazon box as a TV stand?”
