Chapter 89 Margaret
Chapter 89 Margaret
“Block the number.” Beck's voice was flat, his thumb already hovering over my screen. “She wants a reaction. Don't give her one.”
“She's my grandmother.”
“She's a stranger who shares your DNA. That's not the same thing.”
I let him block it. The number disappeared. But the weight of it stayed, pressing on my chest like a second heartbeat. I'd spent my whole life believing my mother's family was dead. Now I had a grandmother, a twin aunt, and a network of criminals who wanted me dead or recruited.
“Elena is running background on her,” Beck said, pulling me toward the couch. “We'll know everything by morning.”
“And if there's nothing to find?”
“Then we make her show her hand.”
He sat down and pulled me onto his lap. His arms wrapped around my waist, his chin resting on my shoulder. “Ivy, listen to me. You survived your mother. You survived Victoria. You survived Silas. You'll survive this.”
“You don't know that.”
“I know you.” His lips brushed my ear. “And I know you're not someone who breaks.”
Elena arrived with coffee and a tablet. “Your grandmother's name is Margaret Voss. No relation to Maren. She's been off the grid for twenty years. No social media, no property records, no tax filings.”
“How is that possible?”
“She has people. Accountants, lawyers, fixers.” Elena set the tablet on the table. “But she's not invisible. She slipped up last night.”
She pulled up a photo. A woman, gray hair, sharp eyes, leaving the warehouse. The same woman from last night.
“One of my contacts spotted her getting into a car with diplomatic plates. Belgian embassy.”
Beck leaned forward. “She's a diplomat?”
“Or she knows one.” Elena zoomed in on the license plate. “I'm making calls. But this could take days.”
“We don't have days.”
“You have today. You have class. You have a hockey game. You have a life.” Elena looked at me. “Go live it. I'll handle the rest.”
The quad was buzzing with spring energy. Students lounged on the grass, tossing frisbees, laughing. Simone was sitting on a bench, sketching. She looked up when I walked over.
“You look like hell.”
“Thanks.”
“I mean it.” She set down her pencil. “What happened? You and Beck have been MIA for days.”
“Family stuff.”
“Your mom?”
“Her mom.”
Simone's eyebrows rose. “I thought she was dead.”
“So did I.”
She didn't push. Just patted the bench next to her. I sat.
“My dad used to say that family is the people who show up. Not the ones who share your blood.” She handed me her sketchbook. “I've been practicing galaxies.”
The page was filled with swirls, stars, a small planet. It wasn't perfect. But it was honest.
“This is good.”
“You're a terrible liar.”
“I'm an honest liar.” I handed it back. “Keep practicing.”
Beck had practice. I sat in the stands, watching him fly across the ice. He was fast today, sharper than usual, like he was skating through anger.
A girl sat down next to me. Young, maybe a freshman, with dark hair and nervous hands.
“You're Ivy, right?”
“Yeah.”
“I just wanted to say that your book saved my life.” She wasn't looking at me. She was looking at the ice. “I was going to kill myself last year. Then I found your zine. The one about the galaxy girl.”
I reached over and took her hand. “I'm glad you're still here.”
“Me too.” She squeezed, then stood up. “Thank you.”
She walked away. Beck scored. He looked up at me and tapped his chest.
I tapped mine back.
After practice, Beck found me in the stands. “Who was that?”
“A fan.”
“She looked upset.”
“She was grateful.” I stood up. “Let's go home.”
We walked to his truck. My phone buzzed. Unknown number. I almost ignored it.
“You have your mother's talent. Come to dinner. Let's talk. —Margaret”
I showed Beck. His jaw tightened.
“Don't respond.”
“What if she has information about the network? About who's really behind this?”
“Then she can tell Elena.”
“She won't talk to Elena.”
“Then she doesn't get to talk to you.”
He opened the passenger door for me. I got in.
We ordered pizza. Ate in silence. Beck's phone buzzed. He glanced at it.
“Elena found something. Margaret Voss has a house in the city. Under a different name.”
“Where?”
“About twenty minutes from here.” He set down his slice. “She's been living blocks away from campus.”
“She's been watching me.”
“Or watching the people watching you.”
“Same thing.”
He wiped his hands and stood up. “We're not going there tonight.”
“We're not going there at all.”
He looked at me. Surprised. “Really?”
“Really.” I stood up and walked to him. “You were right. She wants a reaction. She wants me scared. I'm not giving her either.”
He pulled me into his arms. His hand pressed against my lower back. “That's my girl.”
“That's me.”
He kissed me. Slow, warm, his lips tasting like tomato sauce and pepperoni. “I'm proud of you.”
“I haven't done anything.”
“You chose peace over war. That's everything.”
We fell asleep on the couch, tangled together, the TV playing some old movie neither of us was watching. My phone stayed dark.
No threats. No photos. No grandmother.
I should have felt relieved. I didn't.
Sometime after midnight, I woke to Beck's arms tightening around me.
“What is it?”
“Car outside. Been there for an hour.”
I sat up, peered through the blinds. A dark sedan. Same make, same model. Engine off.
“Margaret?”
“Or someone she sent.”
He reached for his phone. “I'm calling Elena.”
The car's headlights flashed once. Twice. Then the engine started.
It drove away.
My phone buzzed. Unknown number.
“See you soon, granddaughter.”
I turned the screen toward Beck.
His jaw tightened. “We're not running.”
“We're not hiding.”
“Then we fight.”
He kissed my forehead.
And somewhere in the dark, the woman who shared my blood was waiting.
Waiting for me to come to her.
Or for her to come to me.