I float in and out of unsettled awareness for a couple hours until a loud rumble of thunder sharpens my focus.
I need to check on Baz. The mansion she’s in once belonged to a friend of Lloyd’s, and he swears it has stood on that island for nearly a century, despite the hurricanes that hurl themselves against the coast every few years.
Grabbing my phone, I pull up the security feed for the mansion. There’s one camera overlooking the front door, one at the back door, and a few more inside, surveying the major living spaces. I had them installed two days ago, when Lloyd first proposed this plan.
I switch through the feeds until I find Baz, lying fast asleep on the bed in the room I prepared for her. She’s surrounded by bags of chips, a bowl of salsa, and a plate of half-eaten fried chicken legs. Comfort food to soothe her battered heart.
I am the cause of her pain. And here I am, shooting myself fullof dope so I don’t have to think about it.
I’m a fucking coward.
Rage spurts hot in my chest, and I leap off the bed, rushing into the bathroom. I open my “happy case” and I tear out its contents—thousands of dollars’ worth of high-end drugs. I can’t dump that shit down the toilet—water treatment plants can’t handle the stuff, and it fucks up the water supply—so I crush and smash everything I can and dump it all into the bathroom trash can. Then I carry it to the kitchen and empty it into the bigger garbage can, mixing it into the mess of coffee grounds and moldy takeout.
I stand over it all, shaking. Then I stalk back to my room and get my phone, my lighter, and my cigarettes. Can’t smoke in Lloyd’s precious penthouse, so I go outside. Despite everything, I can’t bring myself to break that rule of his.
Rain streams off the roof of the balcony in a glimmering black veil. The ocean is a dark blur, etched with the faintest prickle of white masts from the boats in the marina. After lighting the cigarette, I pull out my phone and check the security feed for the mansion again, going through every room, then the back camera, then the front—
Wait.
I peer at the feed for the front camera again.
Someone is moving on the porch. Fiddling with the front door.
Heart thundering, I switch to the feed of Baz’s room. She’s still asleep. It’s not her standing out there in the dark.
When I go back to the front porch camera, the figure is hefting something—a rock? It plunges through the narrow window beside the door.
Two seconds later, the alarm on my phone blares, and a pop-up alerts me to the intrusion. The mansion’s alarm isn’t connected to any security company or to the police; they wouldn’t take too kindlyto me holding someone captive at the house.
I’m the only one receiving the alert. Which means I’m the only one who can protect Baz from whoever is creeping through that window. And I’m far from her, across rough seas. It’d be dangerous to go to her. Deadly, even. The damage my potential drowning could do to the portrait…
I don’t care.
Stamping out the cigarette, I rush back inside, grab a coat, and stuff some cash in my wallet to bribe anyone who tries to stop me from taking the boat out. As a final precaution, I take my pistol from the bureau drawer. It was a gift from an admirer a few years ago—a custom job with gold inlay and walnut grips. I’ve always thought of it as more of a collector’s piece than a weapon. But I’ll happily use it if anyone hurts Baz.
I’m in the elevator before I remember my portrait is in the mansion, too. Granted, it’s enclosed in bulletproof acrylic, accessible only to me, and no one but Baz and Lloyd knows its importance. Still, it’s more vulnerable than usual, and that knowledge sends another jolt of panic through my system, along with a startled wonder that my concern for Baz came first. In my desperation to save her, I almost didn’t remember my portrait at all.
When the elevator opens, I race for the front door of the Chandler, ignoring the shout of the concierge.
The two most important things in this world are in peril. And I can’t run fast enough.
30
Baz
I wouldn’t say I’ve had a good life. To be honest, it’s been a fucking nightmare at times.
But until now, it hasn’t included guns being pointed at me. And since I met Dorian Gray, that’s happened twice.
The second time is right now.
After exploring the old mansion and discovering no phone and no way to contact anyone, I binged on snacks and fell asleep on the old four-poster bed. The bed might be old, but the mattress and bedding are new and damn comfortable.
I don’t regret the snacking or giving up on escape and falling asleep in my new prison. But when I open my eyes and see Vane at the foot of the bed, pointing a pistol at me, I do regret meeting Dorian Gray.
“Vane,” I say slowly, easing myself to an upright position. “What the fuck?”
He’s gaunt and shaky, his eyes red-rimmed, pupils dilated. He’s also soaking wet, and I realize that sheets of rain are spattering the windowpanes of my room.
