“Go back early?”
Edmond nods. “Miss Thea, good morning. Yes, we must return both of you right away. There will be questions regarding an EV member’s death regardless of local reports. It’s standard procedure. If one of the members … well, all assets are to be returned, immediately.”
I bristle. Assets.
He sighs. “I’m sorry, Miss Thea. I must insist we get moving. Could you please change? We will be going right away.”
I nod. What was I thinking? Getting all comfortable here. For one second, one stupid second, I let my guard down. Let the warmth of Slade coming to get me trick me. I let the soft and earnest room lull me into something. What is wrong with me? Now I’m standing here feeling comfortable in a man’s house, and he might’ve killed someone. Did he? Or was it truly a heart attack?
It was GHB, right? I thought … I thought he laced his drink with the GHB he gave us. Oh, gosh. Is it even GHB at all?
This house shouldn’t feel safe.Heshouldn’t feel safe. And yet, for a moment, they did.
Edmond shuffles around, and Stefan tosses together a quick breakfast, more chaotic than I’ve seen him.
I glance at the TV. They’re running scared of the news? They want to collect all the girls before what? Before law enforcement questions those close to Bishop, many of whom I’m sure are EV members. Can’t have girls at the house when the police come knocking. The media is putting pressure on them.
I’m sure they have enough law enforcement and politicians in their pockets, but the media … Every headline, everywhispered rumor, it probably chips at the edges of who EV is, and I’m going to use it.
Somehow.
Some way.
I don’t know when yet, but I will. The moment I get a sliver of freedom; I’ll feed the media what they’re starving for. They may think it’s too twisted to be real, but I’m sure there are some journalists who would believe me.
If there’s one thing a well-placed underground organization like EV can’t handle, it’s beingseen, and when the time comes, I want to be part of burning them in the spotlight.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
SLADE
Two days is too long to go without hearing from my grandfather. Which means, when I step off the elevator, I have a strong feeling he’ll be waiting for me in my office.
The messages poured in shortly after the news story broke last Saturday, considering his security team placed me at his mansion. My grandfather, along with the other seven of the Eight, wanted to know what I was doing, what I’d seen, why I took “the girl.”
To which I responded via text: I stopped by to discuss business and found him passed out in the kitchen. Found the girl chained up and terrified, so I took her as a fail-safe. Security would notify authorities, and I was looking out for the organization by taking evidence.
The beauty of it all? Bishop didn’t believe in surveillance inside his home. He said that real privacy was priceless and the true luxury of the rich. No cameras inside, especially not in the kitchen. He scoffed and said, “If you need to watch yourself eat, you’ve already lost.”
Outside surveillance and security? Yes. But inside …
The truth is uglier than that. He didn’t want eyes on what happened behind his closed door. The control. The violence.The sick pleasure he took in torturing the girls while no one was watching. He hoarded those moments of suffering. They belonged to him and him alone, unshared and unrecorded.
The elevator dings, and I don’t even have to step out before I hear him.
“Snacks? You made this into a hippie office.” His voice cuts down the hallway like honed, pointed steel. It’s venomous with fury, but I know it’s not directed toward the staff. He’s been here plenty of times. “And whose idea was it to paint the walls blue? White was fine! Just fine, I tell you!”
I step out slowly, my jaw already aching as I clench it.
“Your, um, grandfather is here,” Elliot says, morphing into step beside me. “He canceled all your meetings for the day. I-I tried to reschedule, but, um …”
My grandfather demanding bottled water from the office manager has me stepping quicker toward them. When I finally make it outside my office door, he’s positioned himself in the threshold. His tie is askew from his flailing hands, and beads of perspiration stipple his brow. “No respect. I ran this office for twenty years, and now it’s practically run by interns with weak stomachs. We’re the damn DuPonts. Where’s the respect? I could have all of you out on your asses.” He snarls his words, laced with a wild ferocity. Spit forms, building at the corners of his mouth, frothing as if he’s feral. “And you …” He points to Elliot’s secretary and lets the sentence hang as she trembles in a seat behind her desk.
I roll my eyes. Typical Henry DuPont posturing. He’s out of control because of Bishop—the fact I was there, and he doesn’t know why. I smirk. Perhaps I should let him stew.
“Slade. There you are. Your office staff is deplorable. They should all be fired right now, but I need to speak with you.” He turns, marches into my office, and moves behind my desk tostare out the window. His shoulders move up and down in an exaggerated fashion, as if he’s trying to calm himself.
“Should I get you two coffee?” Elliot asks.
