We’ve gotten where we wanted to be—distracting enough to cover for the guys, trustworthy enough not to be under constant surveillance.
I didn’t understand what it would cost all those months ago.
Trips is off sparring with Falk, so I wander the estate alone. There are so many nooks and crannies, spaces I might need to know for our plan to go well. But instead of focusing on what-ifs, I take a winding path to the gallery.
RJ and Jansen taught me what to look for, and I can tell that the security is the same as when Trips lived here as a kid. The same safeguards and lockdown protocols are probably unchanged as well. I pretend to be unbothered, simply taking in the art, but as I approach the small sketch of lions and tigers in the corner, a shiver runs down my spine.
How is what I’m doing in this house any different from when I ran into that dark alley with nothing but a half-assed idea and a winded Trips as backup?
I want this to work. I need it to. But that doesn’t mean it will. Nothing in my life has panned out the way I thought it would, and I can’t see a lifetime of disappointment changing just because I took my time with this plan, took more advice and recommendations from my team. I still put myself on the line, with a damaged Trips as my sidekick.
I miss my guys so much it’s a steady ache in my chest. I miss Emma, and coffee, and the warm rumbles of Fluffington’s purrs around my neck.
The urge to touch the drawing, just to feel closer to Walker, to a time when, while everything was still shit, at least we were all together, calls. I step close enough that I imagine Ican smell the chalk dust from the drawing and wood glue on the frame.
“You know you won’t be able to steal it back, right? That if you so much as brush the frame, the room locks down?”
The humor in Trips’ father’s voice grates. There’s nothing funny about the way he caught us all.
“Is your security really that tight? Aren’t people always the weak points, anyway?” I reply.
“That’s why I keep my people in an even tighter lockdown, Ms. McElroy. Certainly you know that.”
Turning, I find the man in baggy weekend clothes, the jeans and sweater different from his typical vibe of malice and superiority. He’s smaller than last week, whatever treatment he’s getting either not working, or taking more from him than he’d planned for.
I stroll along the edge of the room, running my finger under the frames in the safe zone, 10 inches down, feeling the weight of his eyes on me.
“Why art?” I ask.
“Why not?”
I shake my head, both as a role and a response. “You could have any rich man’s collection. But you chose art. Classical mostly, but with a side interest in Baroque and the Impressionists. There must be a reason.”
He settles onto one of the padded benches across from a painting of a ship at sea, a storm threatening to devour it. “Because my second wife loved art.”
It’s not what I expected. Trips never mentioned it, so I wonder if he even knows. “Was this room set up before or after she died?”
“I’d started it before, but she passed before she could enjoy it.”
“What about the rose garden?”
He crosses his ankle over his knee, his gaze heavy on me, but I can’t help but notice that he’s sitting, resting. Weak. “You might see me as a monster, but I care for my family. Everything I’ve ever done has been for their benefit. I have a feeling you’d go to similar lengths to keep those you care about safe. In fact, you already have.”
I stay silent, unwilling to admit a modicum of similarity to the man across from me. Instead, I lean against the wall, kicking my foot up against it, going for insubordinate street thug even though that’s never been me.
“I’ve been waiting on my list, Ms. McElroy. I want to give you and my son the wedding you deserve, to have people you care about standing beside you. But first, I must have what I’ve asked for.”
I glance across the room, my eyes drawn once again to the Rubens. “I have a feeling it will come through this weekend.”
“Funny. There hasn’t been much communication worth tracking on that phone I gave you.”
I shrug, sticking to my role. “They know what I’m looking for. There’s just a few final details to iron out.”
The echo of his tongue clicking against the roof of his mouth startles me enough that I jump, my heart rate skyrocketing. I keep a calm facade, but I’m in danger of losing consciousness, my pulse whooshing in my ears. My damn panic triggers only make sense half the time. But I can’t pass out. Not right now. Not in front of this man.
His words float to me like I’m underwater as I force my breath to come in even waves instead of panicked pants. “Then I guess I’ll wait with bated breath. If I don’t have a list by the end of the weekend, though, our deal is void.”
“Understood,” I croak before I spin on my heel, forcing myself to walk calmly out even as my vision turns dark at the edges.
