A Gift of Thought by Sarah Wynde

downhill.
    Feelings, too.
    She was pregnant before summer’s end.
    Her mom was great about it. A little disappointed, a little worried, but she’d been a sixteen-year-old mother herself. His parents were not quite so calm, but by the time Dillon was born, they’d been excited to have a grandson. They were nice people, Lucas’s parents.
    What could have happened?
    How had Dillon died?
    And why was Lucas in Chesney’s study?
    And what was in the box?
    Six miles and not once had Sylvie hit the zone.
    She glared at the box lying on the floor and walked around it as if it were dangerous on her way to shower.
    Dressed, hair dried, she ate a bowl of granola while standing in the kitchen, eyes on the box. What if the note said something important? That he couldn’t make it tonight? What if the box held . . . but she couldn’t think of anything that fit the box’s shape and light weight. Papers? Information? Answers?
    No, she knew what the box held.
    Putting her bowl in the sink with a clatter of spoon against ceramic, she crossed to the box and picked it up. Setting it on the table, she plucked the envelope off, slid a finger deftly under the flap, and slipped out the card inside.
    Ruffles don’t suit you.
    She bit back her smile. It was so Lucas.
    But then she sobered. Dillon was still dead. That wasn’t something that she was going to get over easily. Not after Milan.
    Reaching for the box, she broke the tape and shook off the top. The dress inside was wrapped in tissue paper, neatly folded. She took it out gently, lifting it by the shoulders and held it up in front of her.
    It was a cocktail dress made of black chiffon and black leather. The bodice was leather, with a sweetheart neckline, the kind that shaped to the body, and chiffon straps. From a high empire-style waist, layers of chiffon draped to mid-calf length. She looked a little closer, then dropped the dress over one arm, pushing the layers of chiffon aside. Underneath the fluttery, flowing cloth, the black leather continued for several inches. It would hug her body all the way down to her thighs before it flared out into more layers of chiffon. But more than that, it would hug her gun. There were pockets tucked into either side of the leather. It was a concealed carry dress. She’d never even heard of such a thing.
    She glanced at the clock.
    Not enough time to try it on.
    She scowled. What did she want to do?
    *****
    ‘You didn’t wear it. ’ It was a thought, not a sound.
    Sylvie didn’t flinch, just finished her low-voiced conversation with Ty. As he stepped out into the garden, she turned away from the French doors, letting her eyes scan the room in front of her but trying to seem casual. Should she tell Lucas? But the thought slipped out before she could stop it. ‘Not working the party.’
    ‘You liked it then?’
    ‘Smug, much?’ He’d be able to feel the acerbic tone to her thought, before she relented and conceded. ‘It’s beautiful.’
    Where was he? Sylvie’s location in the loggia, adjacent to the hotel lobby, gave her a good view of her surroundings. She let her eyes drift over the wide chairs, the white and black marble floor, the plants, the piano, the well-dressed people populating the elegant environs.
    December in DC was party season. Chesney, with his connections, his wealth, and his political acumen, would be attending holiday events almost daily leading up to New Year’s. Tonight’s was relatively low-key, although exclusive—a political action committee’s celebration for its biggest donors, to be held in the Fairmont’s Colonnade Room. Fortunately, Rachel wasn’t attending. Sylvie had dropped her off at the house after her afternoon activities and then come to the hotel to run the advance screening and risk assessment.
    ‘Dillon will—’ Lucas started, before breaking off the thought.
    Sylvie stilled. Dillon would what? Why was Lucas talking about Dillon in the present tense? She’d thought from the feel of his