“Does it matter?” she snaps, reaching for certainty. “Kidnapping a judge’s daughter is prison, no matter what his name is.”
A dark, ugly laugh drags out of my throat.
“You think I’m worried about prison?”
“You should be.” She steps forward, trying to find height where she has none. Trying to turn her name into armor. “My father knows everyone. Police Commissioner. FBI field director. The Governor.”
She’s building a wall out of titles because it’s the only defense she has left.
“If you know who he is,” she says, her voice rising, “then you know what he’s capable of. He won’t stop. He’ll hunt you down. He’ll burn this city to the ground to find me.”
I watch her.
I watch the conviction in her eyes. She believes it. She genuinely believes that her father is a hero who will come for her.
“He won’t hunt me,” I say softly.
“He will!” She stomps her foot, a flash of the petulant daughter surfacing through the trauma. “He loves me! I’m his only family! Do you really think he’s going to let some... some criminal take me and do nothing?”
“I think he’s going to do exactly what William Hale always does,” I say. “He’s going to calculate the cost.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means your father isn’t the hero you think he is.”
I walk past her, heading for the wet bar in the corner. I need water. The whiskey is still burning in my stomach, and the blood loss is making me lightheaded.
“Don’t you dare walk away from me!” she screams.
I ignore her. I pour a glass of water and drink it, watching her reflection in the mirror behind the bar.
She’s fuming. Shaking with rage.
“My father is a good man,” she spits out. “He has put away men like you for thirty years. He stands for the law. He stands for justice.”
I turn around, leaning against the bar and crossing my arms over my chest. The movement pulls at the cut on my hand, sending a fresh spike of pain up my arm.
“He stands for the law,” I agree. “But the law is about maintaining control, not doing what’s right.”
“You don’t know him,” she snaps.
“I know how he thinks,” I say, stepping closer. “He calculates risk. And right now, Iris? You are a risk.”
“Not him,” she insists. “He’s incorruptible. He doesn’t calculate lives.”
I look at her. I look at the absolute, blinding faith in her eyes. It mirrors the faith I had in him five years ago. The faith I’m still desperately trying to hold onto, despite the evidence in my pocket.
Part of me wants her to be right. Because if she’s right, if she’s a florist who got unlucky, then the Judge didn’t betray me.
But the logic doesn’t hold.
“You’re a child,” I say, my tone rougher than intended. “You still believe in fairy tales.”
“I believe in my father,” she says. “And I believe that right now, there is a manhunt looking for me. The longer you keep me here, the worse it gets for you. If you let me go now... maybe you can disappear before they find you.”
She’s bargaining. She’s trying to save me, so I will save her.
“There’s no manhunt,” I say.
