He sighed, long and heavy. That sigh told me more than mere words could have. It said that he was afraid of the truth. But I needed to hear it. Unfortunately, he went into silence mode.
“How did you get so rich?” I asked.
That was a simple question. Perhaps it would bridge whatever horror he was keeping from me. Had he been an assassin for the FBI, a mafia hitman, a jewelry thief? My mind kept turning over possibilities, but not the one he gave me.
“I invested wisely, Penelope. That’s the main part, but it also helped that I’ve lived a long time. And that’s the mystery your brain wants to weasel out of me. That’s what I’m afraid to tell you.”
“You’re not that old. Did you inherit from your parents to get your starter funds?”
“No.”
Timothy picked me up and set me down on the bed, then he kneeled down on the carpet in front of it. “I’m going to explain, Penelope. I was hoping to put it off, but I can’t. You need to know now. But promise me, please promise me, that you won’t make a run for it and beg Andrew to take you home. That would be dangerous. No matter what I tell you, promise me, even if you don’t want to see me anymore, that you’ll stay here until it’s safe.”
“What you did must be really, really bad if you think I’m going to run from you. Did you kill someone? What did you do that is that horrific? What is your deep, dark secret?”
Timothy took my hands in his and searched my eyes. “I promise you that I have not killed anyone, other than during battle, and I’ve never worked with the mafia in any capacity.”
“You’re a computer geek who stole from the government or from banks, then?”
“Penelope, I can’t explain if you don’t let me. Are you prepared to listen?”
I nodded my head, He hadn’t gotten a promise from me not to run if I thought there was a need for it, but I was hoping the secret wasn’t something so dark that I couldn’t accept it or accept him.
“Do you remember the special room at the Caldwell Fine Arts Gallery?”
Did he mean about the pookas? “Yes. It’s strange. I dreamed about that black stallion. He let me ride him through the moors.”
“Yes, I did.”
I froze. Was he joking? Was this meant to make me laugh?
“You asked me how I became rich, my darling, and I told you that it was from living a long time. A pooka seems to live a very, very long time.”
“But you’re not a horse, or a rabbit. I don’t understand. What are you trying to say? Is this a metaphor for something?”