I glare at Edmond, who’s busy tracing the veined marble under his pointer finger. He flicks the condensation off the side of his tumbler. Then he speaks up. “Can I get you anything?”
“I have no idea. Not really sure,” Thea says. “I am hungry. I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t. Not sure what I’m doing here.”
My nostrils flare, and I spin toward the floor-to-ceiling window along the far wall that frames the dark lake. The glass reflects Stefan’s silhouette as he dices something else with clinical detachment. The softthwack-thwack-thwackof his knife is annoying.
He doesn’t talk much, which I prefer, but the man’s a machine.
His hair is spiked with frosted tips, and a bandana is rolled up at his forehead. Thick, dark eyebrows, a wide nose, and a pocked face—the guy looks like a teenager from the year two thousand at the age of sixty. But he’s on my personal payroll. Not the society’s. Not my grandfather’s. Not the taxpayer’s. Mine.
He moves toward the open shelving where spice jars are lined in near-military formation, the labels handwritten, but he bangs his head on a single copper pot hanging from the stove on display.
“Son of a—” He side-eyes Thea. “—I mean, damn it. Hell, this kitchen needs an upgrade, Slade. All that money and you can’t provide a decent kitchen. I should demand a renovation.”
I raise my eyebrows at him. Itisrenovated. Everything is state of the art, so he can complain all he wants, but he’s stuck with it.
Shaking his head, he grabs a few jars and moves them to his workstation.
“Chef has some leftover beef tenderloin and blanched seasonal vegetables with shallots,” Edmond says, moving to the stainless-steel monolith of a fridge.
“I’d be fine with cereal. If you have any?”
Stefan scoffs. “Cereal? What sort of meal is that? No, no. I will make you a fresh meal if you don’t want the leftovers.”
“Wehavecereal,” Edmond chimes in, diverting from the fridge to the walk-in pantry. He disappears inside and shuffles around. Stefan rolls his eyes, returning to his prep, and Thea chews at her lips before her downcast eyes seek me out.
I tuck my hands into my pockets, and my right bumps the syringe I still have. I need to head to my office and make some phone calls, pay off some people. But not before I find out what cereal she chooses.
Hell. Why do I care what cereal she picks?
I’ve got three voicemails from men who could ruin me, a phone call that can’t wait, and a wire transfer I need to set up. Yet I stand here, wasting seconds I don’t have, watching her patiently wait as Edmond brings out container after container of the cereal, as if it matters. As ifshematters.
Will she pick honey nut or plain? Frosted, cinnamon, or full-blown sugar hell with marshmallows? It’s stupid. Insignificant.
Here I am, zeroed in as she inspects each one, then—damn it—she picks my favorite.
Something about the sugary crunch reminds me of Saturday mornings before everything went to hell. When my grandfather would sit at the breakfast table with me and pretend he hadn’t satiated himself with illegal vices the night before. He’d use it to weasel his way out of his responsibility to be a good role model and bribe me with my favorite cereal. Frosted Flakes.
I choke on the swallow I gulp down.
“I’ll have this brought to …” Edmond looks to me, and I shrug. “My apologies, Miss. But our alternate guest room is currently cleared of furniture for painters to come in the morning, and the room you stayed in last time is … occupied.” His eyes implore me to do something.
“That’s okay,” Thea says. “I can crash on the couch. Anywhere is better than … well, you know.”
“Couch it is then. I’ll have this food brought into the—” Edmond double-blinks at my gesturing.
I shake my head and raise my chin toward the upstairs primary suite.Mysuite.
She’ll stay in my room, I convey.
“I believe the congressman has offeredhisroom. I will show you up there and have your bowl brought up. Is there anything else?”
I see myself out of the kitchen, and Edmond’s voice fades in the background. I don’t spare Thea a glance. I don’t want to see the disappointment etched on her face. She doesn’t want to stay in my room, even if I have no intention of staying there with her. I’ll pull the cot out in my office, which is where I stride now.
My phone buzzes in my pocket. Message after message, and I know Bishop has been discovered. When I enter my home office, tucked into the corner of the first floor, I head straight for my desk to move money from my offshore account. I’m going to need it. Fast.
My desk is wood—a slab of blackened walnut I keep bare. A leather notepad, a pen, and my personal laptop sit organized and alone. There’s a low hum coming from the hidden server in the cabinet beneath my dark bookshelves, meticulous and vacant of personal photos or sentimental decor. No dust or clutter; but also, no distractions. This is where the real work takes place.
My high-rise office downtown leans political and paints the picture I want with traces of my grandfather lingering in the space. But here, not only is it a stark contrast to that downtown workspace, but it’s also got the airy ease of the rest of this house.
