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As silence settles, I turn to Talia and notice that she’s putting in headphones.
“Ah-ah.” I plug one out of her ears. “You’re too young to be an emo teenager.”
“I just want to listen to some music.”
“We need to talk.”
“Do we have to?” she pouts.
“Yes.” She’s stuck in a car with me and can’t lock her room door or slink away from the living room with her tablet. “How was school today?”
“Fine.” She folds her arms over her chest. “What did you talk about with Miss Abbot?”
Should I have this conversation now? With everything that’s going on, I doubt Yaya will have time to come over and be good cop with me.
Okay, Dare. You can do this. Parenting is easy. Everyone does it. You’re just shaping a whole human being, pretty much influencing the world and the future. No big deal.
“Talia, about what you did in the cafeteria…”
My phone chirps.
Saved by the bell.
I hold up a finger, indicating she should wait a moment. Talia rolls her eyes. She’s way too astute, this kid. She can smell that I’m stalling.
My attention fastens on the text I got from Yaya.
It’s an address.
If we were in a different kind of relationship, I’d assume we were meeting for a sexy rendezvous, but this doesn’t feel like an invitation to a hotel room. What could it be?
“Uncle Dare, why are you smiling at your phone?”
Because Yaya invited me over. For the first time, she’s the one opening the door to her world.
“Tals, do you have a lot of homework today?”
“Not really.”
“Good. We’ll be making a short detour before we go home.”
* * *
The exact address Yaya sent is not recognized on our GPS, so I have to call in a favor with Cullen to create a quick navigation route for me.
“You don’t have to if you’re not feeling well.”
“Are you kidding,” he mumbles in that grumpy voice of his. “I’ve been bored out of my mind waiting for these test results.”
In three minutes flat, the coding whizz has a GPS up and running.
Turns out, the address Yaya gave is to Darrel Hastings farmhouse. It sits on an impressive orchard and is an architectural homage to all things wood, stone, and metal.
“Finally.” Mosely sighs and parks the car.
I silently mirror the sentiment. I don’t even want to know how much Darrel Hastings paid to hide that location from every satellite and navigation agency in the country. Something tells me it’s a service only someone like Clay Bolton could offer.
“What is this place?” Talia asks, her nose flat against the window.