"Vane is late," one says. He has a thick Russian accent. "Vane is a fool," says another. "We should proceed with the vote."
Alaric steps out of the elevator. "Vane isn't coming," he announces.
The three men spin around. Hands fly to holsters. But Alaric is faster. He raises the Glock he took from the factory—he hid it in the small of his back.Bang. Bang. Bang.
He doesn't kill them. He shoots the crystal decanters on the table in front of them. Glass and amber liquid explode outward. The men flinch, ducking for cover.
"Sit down," Alaric commands. "Or the next round goes in your knees."
They sit. They recognize him. "Graves," the Russian hisses. "You’re supposed to be dead."
"I get that a lot," Alaric says. He walks into the room, keeping the gun leveled. "Gentlemen, the meeting is adjourned. Everyone gets to leave alive... if you tell me where the Chairman is."
The men look at each other. They look terrified. Not of Alaric. Of something else.
"He's in the Solarium," the Russian whispers, pointing to a heavy set of double doors at the far end of the lounge. "But you don't want to go in there, Graves. He’s... waiting."
"Waiting for whom?"
"For her," the Russian says, looking at me.
Alaric frowns. He looks at me. "Stay behind me."
"No," I say. I feel a pull. A magnetic, sickening pull toward those doors. "I lead."
I walk past the table. I walk to the double doors. They are made of mahogany, carved with intricate patterns of vines and snakes. I push them open.
The Solarium is warm. Humid. It is filled with plants. Orchids. Ferns. Exotic palms. It smells of wet earth and fertilizer. In the center, facing away from us, is a high-backed leather chair. It is facing the window, looking out at the sea.
A cloud of cigar smoke rises from the chair. Blue smoke. It smells of... vanilla and cherry. I stop. My breath catches in my throat. I know that smell. I grew up with that smell.
"Hello, Elodie," a voice says from the chair.
The world stops spinning. The floor drops out from under me. It’s not possible. I saw the urn. I saw the memorial service program. I saw the grief on my mother’s face.
"No," I whisper. "You're dead."
The chair swivels slowly. A man sits there. He is older. Greyer. He has lost weight. But it is him. Charles Fray. My father.
He is wearing a white linen suit. He holds a cigar in one hand and a glass of brandy in the other. He looks at me. Not with love. Not with relief. He looks at me with disappointment. Just like he did at the recitals.
"Death is a tax strategy, darling," he says, taking a sip of brandy. "Surely you understand that by now."
I can't breathe. My lungs are paralyzed. Alaric steps up beside me. I feel his rage radiating off him like heat from a furnace. He raises the gun, aiming it directly at my father’s head. "Give me one reason," Alaric growls, "why I shouldn't paint this greenhouse with your brains."
"Because I am the only one who knows the codes to the detonators," Charles says calmly.
"Detonators?"
Charles gestures to the floor. "The yacht is rigged, Dr. Graves. C-4 in the hull. Triggered by my biometric monitor. If my heart stops... boom." He smiles. A cold, paternal smile. "We go down together. A family reunion."
Alaric doesn't lower the gun. "You're bluffing."
"Am I?" Charles looks at me. "Elodie knows I don't bluff. I told her I would send her away if she didn't practice. I sent her to the asylum. I told her I would erase her. I erased myself."
I find my voice. It is small, broken. "Why?"
"Why?" Charles laughs. He stands up. He walks toward us, ignoring the gun pointed at his chest. "Because of the legacy, Elodie. The Trust."
