“Lucky for you, I am.” A slow grin spreads across my face.
Ellie laughs awkwardly. “Should I be scared right now?”
“No—no, of course not.” I push the metal box back into the cardboard one she found it in. “First we need to confirm he’s been sending these messages.”
“How?” Ellie asks.
“I bet my ex on the police force can get the call records to see what Jack has been up to on this phone. It might be a burner, but nothing is untraceable these days.”
“And then what?” Ellie whispers.
“Well...” I arch an eyebrow. “Do you still have the milk and honey that was delivered from Westchester?”
Ellie frowns. “Yeah—why?”
“There’s been a change of plans—I think we need to adapt,” I say.
“What about Kat? Should we ask her what she thinks?”
I shake my head. “I think Kat would approve.”
“Aubrey?” she says as we stand, shoving the box of Jack’s secrets back in the closet.
“Yeah?” I say.
“What’s in the honey and milk?”
I cross my arms and lean against the doorway to Jack’s office. “I don’t know for sure, but if I had to guess...” I pause, thinking through how much to reveal to Ellie. “Kat told you about the poisonous flowers in the Westchester garden, right?” Ellie nods, so I continue. “Well, bees that collect pollen from toxic flowers make toxic honey, if the percentage of toxic pollen is high enough. The same thing with cows that graze on toxic plants—it taints the milk.”
“So... you think she wants me to poison my dad?” Ellie whispers.
I shrug. “Knowing her... yes.”
I watch El’s features as she processes the truth about the delivery from Westchester. All I can think is how trusting this woman is—how easily led. I’d resent her for her weakness, but I’d rather use it to my advantage. Ellie thinks she knows the truth, but the reality is that she’ll never know the depths of her father and husband’s corruption and depravity.
Not until the timing is right. Not until The Society is ready for her to know everything.
Thirty-Six
Ellie
The smell of smoke yanks me out of sleep.
I bolt upright, heart hammering against my ribs. For a moment, I don’t know where I am. The couch digs into the back of my legs; the room swims before my eyes.
And then I hear it—a low, crackling hiss from the kitchen.
The burners.
I stumble to my feet, dizzy, the heavy scent of gas stinging my nose and throat. I gag, coughing, and stagger toward the source. The stovetop is ablaze—one of the burners has caught fire, a greasy orange flame licking up toward the cabinets.
Panic claws at me.
I don’t remember turning on the stove. I don’t even remember lying down on the couch.
“Ellie!”
Jack’s voice cuts through the haze. He bursts into the kitchen, barefoot, in sweatpants and a T-shirt, eyes wild. Without hesitation, he grabs the fire extinguisher from under the sink, rips the pin out, and blasts the fire with a shuddering spray of white foam.
