She hated that she’d hurt him. Her whole life, her instinct had been to hide her fears and weaknesses. When you grew up in Devil’s Acre, that was what you learned. Even those who suffered the most strove to maintain their pride. Jules, though, was different. He’d always been vulnerable, at least around Zaria. He told her the truth even when she didn’t want to hear it.
All you’ve done is lose money, just like your father did.
He’d been right, though, hadn’t he? No matter how inadvertently, Zaria was struggling the same way her father had. She was a burden to Jules and George, and she’d potentially endangered both their lives.
“You can stay here if you like,” Kane called back to her, “but I really wouldn’t recommend it.”
Her head snapped up. Kane and Fletcher were already maneuvering the pianoforte through the glass doors, moonlight gilding thebone-white keys. She followed, pausing amid the shrubbery. The air smelled like damp leaves, the scent of factory smoke imperceptible for once. It felt like a fever dream, standing in a well-maintained garden beneath the shroud of night, a rolling pianoforte atop the grass. It seemed impossible that they wouldn’t get caught. But then again, who would be keeping an eye out for pianoforte thieves?
“All right.” Kane rubbed his hands together. “Ward owns a warehouse just across the street. Don’t worry,” he added, perhaps in response to Zaria’s grimace. “He rarely frequents it. That’s where we’re going to store this thing.”
Together he and Fletcher shoved the instrument across the grass—that part seemed to take some effort—and through the iron gate at the perimeter of the garden. Zaria felt her whole body tense as they crossed the dark road, but she didn’t see another soul in the vicinity. In this part of the city, properties were large enough that the buildings were far away from one another. And thank God for that; they must have made quite the odd sight pushing a pianoforte on wheels down the street.
“Don’t worry,” Fletcher said jovially, catching Zaria’s wince at the clacking of wheels against the cobblestones. “It sounds just like a stagecoach. If anyone happens to overhear, they won’t think anything of it.”
She suspected he was probably right, but it didn’t make the situation any less strange. She was relieved when they stopped outside the doors of the warehouse and Kane—unhurried, unbothered—procured a key from somewhere on his person. Once the lock clicked, Fletcher yanked it ajar, holding the door open for Kane in a gesture that seemed automatic.
“Thanks, Fletch,” Kane said, shoving the pianoforte through. “I’ll take it in. You can stand guard.”
Zaria folded her arms across her chest. “And me?”
Kane glanced over his shoulder at her, an afterthought. “Come or stay. It doesn’t make a difference.”
And then he was gone, Fletcher slamming the warehouse doors behind him with an upheaval of dust. The Irishman leaned against the exterior of the building, long legs crossed at the ankles, staring into the smog. After a beat of uncertainty, Zaria did the same. Something about the way Fletcher glanced sidelong at her made her suspect he had something to say. But perhaps he thought better of it, because he remained silent until Zaria said, “What is it?”
He breathed a laugh, directing a grin into the night. “You’re perceptive.”
“You’re easy to read. If there’s something you want to say to me, just say it.”
Fletcher turned to look at her now. “Kane. You’re angry with him, and you have the right to be.”
“I know that.” The words came out defensive, though Zaria had tried to keep her voice calm. She gritted her teeth as Fletcher considered his response.
“Where Kane goes, trouble tends to follow. That said, I can promise you he never meant for Cecile to die.”
“So he told me.”
“You don’t believe him?”
That startled a laugh out of Zaria. “Should I? Tell me, has Kane Durante ever been honest a day in his life?”
“He tells the truth more often than you might think. But I also know he won’t waste much time trying to convince you of it.”
“Because he doesn’t care what I believe as long as he gets what he wants in the end?”
Fletcher ran an agitated hand through his hair. “No. Because he thinks it’s better to let everyone detest him.”
It was harsher than Zaria had been expecting, and she swiveled to face Fletcher, her lips parted. She didn’t think they were talking about her or Cecile any longer. She didn’t quite knowwhatthey were talking about, in fact.
“Whether he intended it or not,” Zaria said coldly, “Cecile died because of Kane. The man who shot hernamedhim, Fletcher. Said his name like I should have known better than to ever get involved with him. And he was right, though I suppose it’s too late now. I’ll see our agreement through, but only because I keep my word.”
And, a voice in her head supplied,because you’re going to help me get what I need.
A moment of silence fell between them. She was braced for Fletcher to argue, but to her surprise, he didn’t. He worried at his lower lip, abruptly looking very tired.
“Don’t tell Kane I said this,” he mused, “but I think he ratherlikesworking with you. Having someone besides me around. But I also think the moment he starts to feel truly content, he tries to destroy it.”
Zaria narrowed her eyes, searching the lines of Fletcher’s face. She didn’t know why he was telling her this. “Is Kane going to… do something? Something that will make me regret our arrangement?”
