Arthur doesn’t let me drown in it.He leans forward, voice lowering.“If you want her safe, you don’t rush.You don’t tip your hand.You wait for me to put the right pieces in place.Until then, you keep your mouth shut and your head down.”
The folder lies open between us.The photos blur at the edges, but one thing stays sharp—Cleo at Dorian’s side, that ring catching the light like a shackle.My throat burns.
“What if waiting is what kills her?”The words tear out of me, rough, uneven, like I’ve been grinding them down on my tongue for hours.“How do I know she’s alive?How do I know she’s okay?How—” I stop, because I know precisely how hollow whatever I was about to say will sound.Proof is the only thing that will keep me from smashing every rule he’s laying down.
It feels like a Sophie’s Choice.Either I force her to prove she’s alive and risk exposing her, or I trust Arthur.The idea tastes like copper in my mouth.
He meets my eyes.“I can put you on a clean channel.A burner connection that doesn’t trace back to you.You leave one phrase with me—something only the two of you know—and if she uses it, we know she’s free to move.If she doesn’t, we don’t act.You want proof?That’s the proof I can give you.Not a call, but a thread we can trust.”
Hope scrapes my ribs like a ragged thumb.“You really can do that?”
“I can,” he says.“But I can’t do it if you break the rules.If you reach for her, if you try to be the hero, you ruin it.You ruin her.”
My hands clench so hard the bandages bite.“And Barret?”
Arthur’s gaze is flat.“You keep him out of it until I say otherwise.If you drag him in, you’re asking for everything you love to be wrapped in fire.”
I swallow.
I want to argue, to promise I won’t move, to say I can’t be passive while she’s—while any of them are—out there.But the panic is hottest in my mouth, and Arthur’s voice is the coldest thing in the room.I nod once, the smallest surrender.
“All right,” I whisper.“Set the channel up.
“It’ll be done.”Arthur rises, closes his briefcase, and for a moment, he looks almost tender, making my skin crawl.“You do this my way, Eddie.You don’t go hunting.You let me work.I might even onboard my son.Mason will run the tails—he’s discreet and smart.I’ll have him watch Barret.”
“Thank you for doing this.”I clear my throat.“About Barret ...can you put a bodyguard on him?”
He nods once, and the folder slides shut.“He’ll have someone watching after him.Maybe ...just maybe you try to fix your shit with him while we figure out what’s happening with Cleo.”
“I ...”The word drags.I’m not sure what to say because what’s there to fix?What’s there to promise?Maybe if I say, “I’ll work on it,” it’s enough—for now.
At the door, he glances back, offering one last warning wrapped in calm.“Property doesn’t leave alive, Reznor.Remember that.You think the world is in your hands, but one wrong move and you’ll lose her.”
The elevator dings, a bright, almost cheerful chime that doesn’t belong here.Its doors slide open.He steps inside without looking back.The doors close, sealing him away, and I’m left staring at the closed doors—wondering if my Cleo is already gone, or if she’s still somewhere waiting for me to get this right.
ChapterSix
Barret
I’ve been pacing grooves into the hall since sunrise, counting knots in the cedar like rosary beads.Outside, the fog keeps pretending it might clear.It’s the second day in a row with hardly any sun.Inside, Cleo is taking another catnap.She’s had maybe eight of them since yesterday—falls asleep, then the screams come, and we end up hovering in her room, waiting for the small mercy of her opening her eyes.
She’s letting us get closer, but not close enough.So far, we’ve respected the space she needs.She’s learning to choose—the door open, ajar, or closed—and that choice is everything.Day two and I’m still circling the same question: did we do the right thing?
I want to bring the world to her in small, kind pieces.Not everything at once.A handful of people, a few objects that quietly say the world still exists past this cabin.Maybe Arlo—my nephew—because a baby’s laugh dissolves fear in a way nothing else will.The smell of formula, baby powder, the way an innocent person can remind you that the present is kinder than you remember.Maybe her brothers can visit ...one at a time.We could make something possible if we do it at her pace.
What if she prefers everyone here all at once?
This fucking mansion pretending to be a cabin could hold all of them.It has three floors of glass and cedar, filled with rooms we have never used before.We have a recording studio, a place to practice music—Eddie added that for me.
There’s also the nursery Eddie set up for Arlo in case he and his parents ever visit.It’s a corner of softness on the second floor.It’s the only place that doesn’t look like a magazine: soft blankets that aren’t perfectly folded, a mobile of tiny whales that turns with no effort, a rocking chair that creaks in a way that soothes instead of jerking the breath away.It smells faintly of lavender and old cotton, and just standing there, the idea of normal feels possible.
I head toward Eddie’s office, idea thrumming through my entire body.I’m not sure how he’ll react.
He’ll probably say,Fuck no, Barret.We can’t.Which means I have to find a way to get the yes.I can already see his face when I say it,The Wilder brothers could come.We could even invite Dexter and Alec to have a little Dead Moth Parade reunion.
We’ll be bringing voices, stories, and people who remember who she was before all this twisted her into someone else.
Eddie is at his desk when I push the door open, papers spread like a map of everything he’s refusing to let slide.There’s acquisitions, sales, and things to cover.
