"Obviously."
"You're not going."
"I have to. If Edmund Kingsley himself is inviting me, that means he knows about the DNA, the clause, and about everything." I take a breath. "This is my chance to face them. All of them. On neutral ground with witnesses."
"There's no such thing as neutral ground in Wintervale. I can’t protect you in his house.”
“Correction, my house.” I stand, square my shoulders, and become the senator's daughter who's learned how to smile through unpleasantries. "My mother spent three years building this case. She died for it. I'm not going to waste that by hiding."
"Peyton, we don’t have all of our ducks in a row yet.”
"I'm going to that house, Blake, with or without you." I meet his eyes, let him see my determination. "But I'd really prefer it were with you."
He stares at me for a long moment, then curses under his breath. "You're going to get us both killed."
"Probably."
Blake pulls me close and kisses the top of my head.
“Is it safe for me to go home?”
“Hell no.”
“I need things. Another dress. A warmer coat.”
“I’ll buy you anything you need. You’re coming home with me.”
He clasps my hand as we make our way outside, where the quiet snow continues to fall on Wintervale, covering sins, burying secrets, making everything look clean and pure and innocent.
But we know better.
This town is built on deception and lies, but tomorrow we start collecting debts. I'm done being the thing people take from. Soon, I become the thing they fear.
A Kingsley on Christmas Eve.
Who’s holding a motherfucking grudge.
Chapter 7
Blake
I’ve found myself in an uncomfortable position.
And I hate it.
The key to protecting a target is not to become emotionally invested. It’s Delano business 101. But every moment I spend with Peyton, the more invested I become, which in this town is only going to place a larger target on her beautiful back.
We spend the rest of the day at the safe house planning for the Kingsley Christmas gala–exits, contingencies, backup plans for when the primary plan inevitably goes to hell. My sister arrives around three with a few shopping bags of clothes and essentials I asked her to pick up and a grim expression that says the situation's worse than we thought.
“Why do you look like the Grinch who stole Christmas?” I say to her.
“Because somebody has me out shopping for couture when we have more important things to worry about.”
“I’m sorry,” Peyton apologizes. “But he won’t let me go home to get my stuff.”
“Don’t mind me. I’m just worried,” Talia replies. “Edmund Kingsley doesn't do personal invitations," she says, handing Peyton the bags. “Make sure I got everything you needed,” she tells her, then goes back to talking about Kingsley. “The fact that he's reaching out directly means he's either desperate or confident. Maybe both."
"What's his play?" I ask.
