Luckily, it’s my good shoulder, and I’ve been through a hell of a lot worse pain than what he’s dealing.
“What did you want, Trevor?” I ask, my voice saccharine.
“We still haven’t had a chance for that swim,” he says, his teeth gritted.
“I’m not in the mood,” I answer, shifting my hold just enough for my nails to cut him.
Something dark and furious shines in his eyes, a man unused to anyone telling him no besides his hellish father. Before he can say anything else, though, a feminine throat clearing draws both of our attention to the doorway.
Trips’ stepmom, Mattie’s mom Jessica, stands there, her smile gentle but her eyes hard as she quickly parses what she sees. “Clara, exactly who I was looking for. I have some questions about the wedding that I’d like to address before the planner gets here,” she says.
“Of course,” I say, waiting for Trevor to unhand me.
He does the same, but in the end, he lets me go before I release him, and it feels like a win. The first one in a while.
Grabbing my cup of decaf, I follow this cipher of a woman out of the room, curious about her saving me. We say nothing as she winds through the hallways, much of it still a jumbled mess to me, but building my map in my mind like Jansen and RJ taught me.
The main floor comprises public rooms; the second floor mostly private rooms for the family. On the third floor are guest rooms, and apparently where they installed locks on theoutsidesof a handful of doors, like the luxury prison this place has turned out to be. The greenhouse is one floor higher, while the basement is half underground and half walkout, with exercise rooms—one for general fitness, a full basketball court, and a dedicated space for fencing—as well as the pool, a theater room, and a game room.
She leads me to the gallery, an odd choice, but a room I’ve needed to spend more time in if this plan stands a chance of working out. I’ve got to scope it out. Or at least look like I am.
Once there, she takes a seat on a bench facing a large piece with huge colorful flowers, and I wish Walker were here to tell me all about the artist, time period, and color theory behind the piece. I miss him.
Instead, I’m stuck with Jessica surveying me, ignoring the probable masterpiece across from us. “No audio in this room right now, just cameras,” she says, a smile on her face that doesn’t reach her eyes.
I match her face, able to pretend as well as she can. “Good to know.”
“Why did you come back?” she asks, rubbing the outside of her knee like a muscle there is sore.
A rumble of thunder shakes the house, the lights flickering for a moment.
We both hold our breath, but the power stays on. “We have a backup generator if we lose power,” she adds, as if I’m scared of the dark. Maybe she is. Either way, I know about the generator—it killed the first version of the plan, as we can’t just cut the power and disappear. I’m not looking forward to staying here until the dust settles. But I’m prepared for it.
I think about my answer to her initial question. Jessica wasn’t on Trips’ list of allies. But he told me that his past makes it hard to judge some people, Jessica in particular. So far, she’s shown a desire to keep her daughter safe, and a willingness to help both me and Trips however she can. It also sounded like she tried to warn Olivia against marrying Trevor.
I don’t trust her; I can’t, as I’m fairly certain she’s playing her own hand while Trips and I scramble to win ours. But sheisn’t my enemy either. “We came back because this is where we need to be.”
Her strawberry blonde hair glints as she tilts her chin, trying to read me the same way I’ve learned to read others. It’s an inspection born of violence and necessity, as familiar as the way I lock my jaw when a palm flies toward my face or the way my leg seizes up when I run too fast for too long.
“I’ve watched you two. I feel the need to warn you that my husband doesn’t much like being toyed with. And the second you think you’ve won, he’ll make one last move, and at best, you have a draw.”
“And at worst?”
She lifts her chin, like arrogance is armor. “At worst, you’ll get to heal from a broken leg while pregnant, even when you were sure you held the trump card.”
Her voice catches, and I turn away, not wanting to see her pain. Understanding the stiff way she moved, the way she rubbed her leg, the way the storm must have amplified whatever damage she’d sustained while trying to keep her daughter safe.
“You’ve done right by your daughter,” I say instead, staring at the Rubens hung in a corner of the gallery, such a small piece to have caused so much strife for us.
“But not by the rest of you,” she whispers.
I debate once again how much I can trust this woman. “We’re adults. At a certain point, it’s up to us to protect ourselves.”
“Barely adults.”
“When was the last time Archie was a child?”
My question is answered with silence. He hasn’t been a child for years. Probably since the woman beside me had to choose between her stepson and her unborn daughter.
