The Secret Whisperer
Stamped into the cover was a symbol: an eye inside a triangle, surrounded by curling, intricate lines that almost seemed alive.
“What is this?” Leila asked, keeping her voice steady.
Christina gave her a look that said she was either testing her or trying to decide how much to say. “This,” she said at last, “is why you’ve been dodging mustard jackets and cleaning up after dead archaeologists.”
Leila’s heart skipped a beat. She sat down, sliding the book toward her. It was heavier than it looked, its weight a promise of bad news.
“Oh my! Explain,” she said, flipping it open.
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