“Turns out that Hawke Fusillo isn’t the only high-profile death being reported this morning,” he continues. “There was another body discovered in the Shadow Mountain area of Portland, Oregon. Billionaire Robert Wallach, former owner of the Signet Media conglomerate, was found dead in what appears to be another brutal homicide. A local jogger running by the estate saw Mr. Wallach’s body,covered in blood,” the newscaster emphasizes, “out on his balcony. The jogger alerted the authorities.
“Mr. Wallach was reportedly home alone at the time,” the man continues. “His wife and eight children were at their Malibu property during the attack. Police are searching for any tips the public may have to offer. Mr. Wallach notably rose to fame with Priority News Network, which was famously disbanded after the Essential Women’s Act was struck down. Since then, however, Mr. Wallach has become somewhat of a folk hero to those on the right and a frequent guest on other news networks. Mr. Wallach leaves behind a net worth of close to thirty billion dollars.”
That was the investor Marcella and Brynn were flying out to see. And just like the rest, he died before they arrived. I’m speechless, but the newscaster turns to another reporter at the desk, a woman with blond hair and bright red lipstick.
“What do you make of this, Connie?” he asks, almost lightheartedly.
“Sounds like men should watch out,” she calls back with a laugh, and I cringe. “No, but really,” she says more seriously, even though she was the one who made the joke. “Although there’s noimmediate connection between these deaths, it’s quite alarming. These were powerful men. Is this just the beginning? Should all men be worried? I mean, John,” she says, looking over dramatically, “if men are being slaughtered in their homes, we’re going to have to take a serious look at what’s happening in society. Fighting on both sides has—”
Annalise turns off the TV, leaving the echo of the reporter’s words.
“Slaughtered in their homes?” Quentin repeats. “Didn’t this dude run down his mistress ten years ago?”
“Never charged,” Jackson says. “I vaguely remember them blaming it on faulty brakes in his Bentley.”
“Fucking rich people,” Quentin mutters.
“And what about this ‘both sides’ bullshit,” Jackson continues. “Didn’t Wallach take this same network to court claiming they were toopro-woman? Why are they acting like there are two sides to the fighting? One wants to drag us back to the Essential Women’s Act, and one—”
“Wants to kill all men?” Annalise adds. Jackson tells her she’s not helping his argument and she laughs.
“I’m mostly kidding, Jackson,” she says, waving her hand. “And listen, I appreciate how you and Quentin are outraged, truly. The world needs more of this.” She points at both of them.
Annalise goes over to grab one of the coffees off the dresser and takes a tentative sip. “Sonowsociety has a problem because four rich white men are dead?” she asks. “That’s their big concern? Not the violence against everyone else, the hunger and poverty, the stripping of rights? But yes, four rich men are dead, so we’d better reexamine our values.”
“What do you think happened?” Jackson asks, looking at Quentin then Annalise. “Because that’s it, right? All of the investors are dead now.”
When he says it, he turns to me and I realize he’s right. Despite the grim circumstances, he’s right—they’re all dead.
“What does that mean for us?” I ask Annalise, shocked. “Is it… Is it over?”
As if answering my question, Jackson’s phone rings. We exchange a nervous glance, but when I check the caller ID, I see it’s Sydney’s number.
She’s already talking when I answer.
“They didn’t kill him,” Sydney says, her voice shaking. “But he literally kidnapped them, Mena. He sent a few guys to their hotel room to snatch them right out of bed and had them brought to his home. And then, nearly identical situation as mine. Someone broke in while he was threatening them, and he locked our girls inside a closet. He told them not to make a sound or he’d deactivate them. Said his wife probably sent another private investigator to get through his prenup.”
“Are they okay?” I ask, terrified.
“They don’t have their phones or any of their things, so they’re heading back to the hotel now. Brynn memorized my number from the email earlier when they stopped to use the phone at a convenience store.”
“Did they see who did it?” Annalise asks. “Any clue?”
“None,” Sydney says. “I’ll let them tell you the rest, but like I said, it was really similar to what happened to me. The attacker knew they were there—even unlocked the closet door before leaving the scene.”
“We need to meet up,” I say definitively. “Get Marcella and Brynn and meet us in Colorado.”
“What? No,” Annalise says. “An entire town is missing. This might be a little high-profile.”
She’s right, of course, but I wasn’t sure where else to suggest. Connecticut isn’t our home. Neither is New York or Oregon. Colorado is the closest thing to it. The closest place to home we’ve ever known.
“Look,” I say, understanding. “It’s not a perfect plan, but we need to figure out what’s next. At least here, all the people working for the academy are dead or missing. Not to dismiss that, but it does offer us some cover. Otherwise, who knows where else they’ll be able to track us down.”
“You really want us to come back to Colorado?” Sydney asks nervously.
“Yes,” I say. “We can figure out our next steps here. It’s far enough from Leandra and Rosemarie. There’s no Winston Weeks. I don’t even think Anton knows we’re here. We’ll keep a low profileandwe’ll be together.”
As she thinks it over, I turn to Annalise and she reluctantly nods that she agrees with the plan.
