Read BreadCrumb Trail (The Yellow Hoods, #2): Steampunk meets Fairy Tale for Free Online Page A

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    The thug nervously fumbled with his hands. “She appreciated you taking care of Maxwell and her son, of whom she’s not fond, it seems.”
    The Hound turned on his heel, back toward the fire. “So that’s why everything didn’t quite fit together. He has a son . Why didn’t our little spy tell us that? Hmm.” He rubbed his reddish-brown beard. “Maybe she thought he’d gone somewhere else? Maybe someone tipped Watt off that we were coming and he made up his own story to cover why his son wasn’t here?”
    “Why don’t we ask Watt?” asked the thug, trying to get on the boss’ good side. “He’s still conscious, somewhat.”
    The Hound considered it, but decided to trust his gut. “He already blacked out twice at the sight of me, and I wouldn’t believe anything he says anyway. He could send us on a wild fox hunt. St. Malo will decide what to do with him. By the time they get answers— if they can—it will be too late for us. We will have failed, and whatever Watt is up to could have succeeded.”
    The Hound stepped into the house. “I need to check things again, now that we know the son is missing. I’ll see you in the coach shortly,” he said, dismissing the thug. The Hound smiled secretly at the idea of riding around the kingdoms in expensive coaches, wearing fine clothes, eating exceptional food, and having impressive access to resources. Such luxuries facilitated his focus and dedication. Since LeLoup had died, his life had changed considerably.
    Leading up to this evening, he’d taken time to gather information on Watt, before approaching the cleaning lady who spied for St. Malo. He’d then approached Watt’s ex-wife and struck a deal, gaining her support to convince authorities there was nothing out of the ordinary about Mister Watt suddenly being out of town. This afternoon, he’d hired some thugs—indirectly—in order to set fires across town, to keep authorities distracted.
    From the moment the Hound had turned the key in the front door and walked in, everything had proceeded like clockwork. Not a side table or shoe was out of place, and if they had missed anything, the cleaning lady was due at seven in the morning sharp, and would remove any final signs of him and his team having been there.
    The Hound had generously paid the cleaning lady two-thirds of the promised money; she’d only expected half. She was to be paid the rest in a week, when everything calmed down. However, he was certain that St. Malo intended her to have the same fate he suspected was in store for the thugs he’d hired. He didn’t like thinking about things like that—it bothered him and got in the way of getting a job done.
    He went upstairs to double-check Maxwell’s room, making sure that everything that should’ve been packed as part of a long trip had been taken. Then, he went through the daughter’s bedroom one more time.
    Finally, he entered the bedroom he’d thought was unused. The Hound checked under the bed, under the mattress, and all of the drawers. “Other than the lack of dust in some places, it looks like no one’s been living here. Smart. The boy’s probably traveling with a light pack,” he mused. The Hound drummed his fingers on the fine chestnut dresser. “I was hoping for a hint of where you’d sent him, Watt.”
    He went back downstairs, sat on the ottoman, and warmed his hands by the fire. “What did you do with your notes and plans, Mister Watt? And where did you send your boy?” he asked himself.
    The Hound looked around the room. He spotted the writing desk tucked in the corner and went over to it. After carefully going through everything, he went back to the ottoman, disappointed.
    “What would I do with my life’s work in this situation? Would I fear more for my son’s life, burn all my stuff, and send him to a distant relative?” Staring into the fire a while, the Hound noticed something behind the logs. He got the poker and moved them around.
    “You burned paper.