Patricia Westerford Novels & Stories

LIAM As soon as I left Felix, my irritation still pulsing beneath the surface, I gave him a clear directive: "Dig into this 'Queen of the West.' I want to know everything by morning." This day kept getting better and better, with more mysterious women throwing themselves in my path. This Queen of the West woman, whoever she was, sounded more like a joke and a waste of time, and I had a feeling the stunt she pulled back in the game room wouldn't be her last.

Patrina's questions about eastbound travel routes had been met with elegant shrugs and apologetic smiles. "Assistant Professor of Sociology," she reminded herself, straightening her posture momentarily before slumping again against the stone wall. "On sabbatical to study contemporary elven cultures." The formal title and purpose didn’t make the waiting any easier. Her colleagues back at the Collegiate Alliance would laugh to see her now – Patrina Warden, known for her punctuality and preparation, stranded by circumstance and poor planning.

Now she was ancient—over one hundred years old. “Will you go?” Aria asked. Patricia was silent for a long moment. “I spent my life manipulating wolves,” she said. “Perhaps it is time I use those skills for good.” “They may kill you too.” “I am one hundred and three. Death no longer frightens me.” She left three days later. Aria waited anxiously. Two weeks later, news came. “Patricia secured Viktor’s release. She is staying with the Purists. She says they need her more than we do.”

Not even close. She had said nothing at breakfast. Nothing at dinner last night. Nothing this morning when she’d passed Isolde in the corridor and Isolde had given her that careful neutral smile that Patricia would have found convincing if she was anyone else. She wasn’t anyone else. She was Patricia Weldon, and she had been watching people perform for forty years, and she knew a performance when she saw one. Her phone buzzed. She looked at it. Then she picked it up without hesitation, right there at the dining table, right in front of all of them.

Patricia had been watching us all this time? “But she’s dead,” I whispered, voice barely holding steady. “So who’s still doing this?” Martinez flipped a page in his notebook, his eyes meeting mine. “We found one more thing in her files. Patricia had another daughter. Not Rebecca. A secret daughter she never admitted to. Her name is Diana Moore. She lives right here in the city.” He paused, the silence stretching. “And she works at Evan’s school. As his teacher’s aide.”

Georgina West As I served breakfast to my 6-year-old twins, Ace and Luna, my mind was still preoccupied with work-related thoughts. While I adore my kids more than anything, I can't help but feel that they have become increasingly challenging to handle each day. Fortunately, my mother-in-law, Sienna, continues to support me in looking after them, even though I am no longer with her son.

The Calloway brownstone was on the Upper East Side. The West Village bakery was, as the name suggested, in the West Village. These were not, geographically, the same place. And yet. --- It was Patricia who invited her to Sunday dinner. I had known it was coming, Jade had warned me, Marcus had warned me, and my own knowledge of Patricia Calloway after eight years of Sunday dinners had told me independently that the invitation was not a matter of if but of when. Patricia did not organize her warmth around convenience. She organized it around people she had decided mattered, and Isabelle had mattered to this family for two years and the ending of an engagement did not retroactively unmatter a p

"Are you okay?" "No. But I will be." I pulled back. "Tell me you have good news." "We have a plan," one of the lawyers said, stepping forward. She was maybe fifty, silver hair pulled back in a severe bun, eyes sharp as glass. "I'm Patricia Westwood. I've been handling Sterling Industries' legal affairs for fifteen years. And I've never seen a more coordinated character assassination in my entire career." "So what do we do?" Calloway moved to stand beside me, close enough that I could feel the heat of him.

Stared at the photograph. "She looks like you," he said. "All of us do." He set the file down. "When do we start?" "Tomorrow." He nodded. "Then tomorrow." The First Thread The first name on the list was a woman named Patricia. She lived in a small town north of the city. Never married. No children. Worked at a library for thirty years. I drove there alone. The library was small, quiet, full of afternoon light. Patricia was at the front desk, stamping books, her gray hair pulled back.