Constantine Capers: The Pennington Perplexity Natalie Brianne (best summer reads of all time .txt) 📖

him by accident again? Without him reading his journal at all or her trying to make him remember. Just meeting him by chance on the street. What would that be like? A chill wind hit her, and she came back to herself and went inside. She hadn’t liked his answer to her worries, but at least he wasn’t giving up. And if Byron didn’t give up with day after day of forgetting, how could she?

Mira flew out the door well before her usual time. She hesitated outside Palace Court for a few minutes. The clock hadn’t chimed eight yet. He might not have read his journal yet. Was he even awake? She took a deep breath, ready for guns, confusion, or a fit of worry. Whatever was behind that door, she needed to be prepared. She took out her key and opened the door.

For once, silence greeted her. No piano music, or rustling papers, or confused ramblings. Only simple silence. As she turned towards the living room, she noticed several notes tacked to the walls and littered about the floor. One crumpled beneath her foot and she picked it up. “Remember.” Another. “Remember.” She rushed to a wall to read more. “You must remember.” Note after note, all saying, “remember” in some form or another. In shock, she turned to the couch to sit down, and found Byron sound asleep and undisturbed by her musings. She pulled a blanket up around his shoulders and then went back to the notes, determined to read them all. What part of the investigation was he trying to remember? Was he trying to remember her? She scarcely dared to hope. She felt her heart beating against her chest. What would happen when he woke up? She laid his journal on the table nearest him, placed a note to read it on top of him, and then took a seat in his armchair. She admired her new vantage point and pulled out her sketchbook as the light from the rising sun filtered through the window.

Byron woke after another half hour, turning over to find the crumpling of a paper in his ears. The noise was enough to give him consciousness. He picked up the note and read it, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes. Mira studied his profile in the morning sunlight. He looked more confused than she had ever seen him. After reading the note, he found the journal and flipped it open to the first page, still not seeing her. She smiled a little. He poured over each page. At one point he ran his hand through his hair and at another he blushed, then smiled. What could he possibly be reading about? After a while, he closed the journal and set it aside, closing his eyes and leaning back.

“Samira Blayse.” It seemed as if he rolled her name over his tongue to get used to it. For Mira, it was an opportunity. She bit her lip in anticipation.

“Yes Byron?”

His response was more than she could have hoped for, as he let out a startled shout and jumped with such alarm that the couch tipped over. He peeked out from behind it. Laughter bubbled out of her.

“You are here already!” He caught his breath. “Wasn’t…expecting that.”

“Yes, I am. Sorry for startling you.”

“You are not.”

“Perhaps it was a little comical.” She stifled a laugh. Byron’s eyes twinkled. He flipped the couch back to its usual position.

“I might need to take that key back, Miss Blayse.”

“Will you, Mr. Constantine?”

“No, I won’t. But for future reference, if I am asleep, go and get yourself some French toast.” He straightened his rumpled jacket.

“Very well, Byron. Off to the bank then?”

“Er, yes. After breakfast. Let me go put myself to rights first.” He picked up the blanket and left the room. Mira left to investigate his kitchen. It was a lot cleaner than she had seen it before. She set to work preparing breakfast with the few ingredients she found in his cupboards. She set the plates on the table just as Byron came out of his room, hair wet, adjusting his tie.

“I didn’t mean for you to make breakfast, Mira.”

“What else was I supposed to do?”

“Not make breakfast.”

“You told me to get myself some French toast.”

“I…” he started, then thought better of it. “Well yes. I suppose I did.”

They ate a quiet breakfast and then it was off to the bank. They learned from Inspector Thatcher that Pennington owned an account with the Bank of England. Byron also received a warrant from the department to check Pennington’s bank records.

They reached Threadneedle Street, and she looked up at the large building. Massive pillars extended to at least three times her height. They entered the bank. The wood paneling, marble, and tiles that surrounded them reminded Mira of Scotland Yard. Byron strode up to one of the tellers. His name badge read Elkins.

“My good sir, would you be so kind as to direct us towards the bank director’s office?”

“You have business with the bank director?” Elkins adjusted his spectacles.

“Yes. We need to have access to the records of a deceased person’s account. We have a warrant.”

“Well, as long as you have a warrant, I can help you sir. May I see it?” Byron nodded and handed it over.

“Ah yes. Mr. Pennington. I helped him a few times. Looks like everything is in order. Let me get his file.” Elkins turned and walked out of sight for a few moments.

“That’s a stroke of luck.” Byron leaned against the woodwork in relief. Elkins returned with a large file and directed them to a table. Byron pulled out a chair for Mira before seating himself beside her. Elkins set the file down and took a seat himself.

“Here it is sir. Are you looking for a particular period?”

“The last year if you would.”

“Of course.” He flipped through a few pages. “Here you are, sir.” He slid a few documents over to them. Byron picked the papers up and glanced