He turned to see S-Man talking with Charnette, one hand casually resting above his waistband while the other gestured toward the desk. To his side, an agent was securing his weapon in a box. It would be collected as evidence until the situation sorted itself out. Vaguely, Lovell wondered if it had been one of S-Man’s own weapons or one borrowed from the FBI.
Once again, he scanned the room looking for Chanel. She couldn’t have escaped, so when he didn’t see her, he moved toward the desk. Malcom’s eyes tracked him the whole way, but neither acknowledged the other. Rounding the desk, he spotted a small door open in the wall, no more than two feet high and three feet wide.
Her safe room. Maybe even an escape room. Maybe it led to tunnels that would take her out of there. Only Chanel wasn’t going anywhere. She lay on her stomach, a bloom of red spreading across her shoulders.
Lovell looked up, then back across the room. No way could S-Man have made that shot. Not from where he stood. Which left one of two options.
He turned to Malcom. His brother’s eyes were resigned and distant, as if he’d always known the story would end this way.
“I wasn’t going to let the bitch leave us here to take the heat,” Malcom said.
Lovell stared at his brother as years of emotions rushed through him so fast he only felt glimpses of them: anger, disappointment, and disgust mingled with the admiration he’d once felt for his older brother as a child, sorrow for what he’d become, and finally, peace.
For the first time in his life, he saw his brother—and sister—for who and what they were. Products of the society they’d been raised in, the people they’d been surrounded by, and the systems that held them down and offered very few ways out. He didn’t excuse their behavior; not everyone who grew up in the same circumstances turned out the way Chanel and Malcom did. They’d made their own choices, choices that ruined other people’s lives for profit, choices that took people’s freedom, choices that made them monsters. On one level, he understood that in their minds, they either became the monsters or were destroyed by them. But understanding wasn’t agreeing; understanding wasn’t excusing.
He’d been given a gift in his grandfather that hadn’t so much as saved him but offered him a port in a storm. He’d made the choice to seek the shelter his grandfather had offered, though. He made choices every day to be neither a monster nor its sacrifice. And these gifts were everywhere if one chose to look for them—in the library, in a teacher, in a sport, in an education, in a technical skill, even in a bus ride to a place where you had no history, where you could be someone different if only for a little while.
The deck was stacked against people like him, like his brother and sister, but that wasn’t a reason for them to stack it against everyone else.
He dipped his chin at his brother, an acknowledgment of his humanity, nothing more, then turned and walked away.
“We need to debrief,” Hershorn said, coming alongside him as he exited the room. Daphne wasn’t where he’d left her, but the place was surrounded by FBI; she couldn’t have gotten into too much trouble. He paused, scanning the hallway as S-Man and Charnette joined them.
“An agent took her back to the hotel,” S-Man said. Lovell met his brother’s gaze. He wasn’t sure what he saw there, maybe disappointment, maybe understanding.
“She said she’d be waiting for you,” he added.
Lovell nodded and turned to Hershorn. “Let’s get started,” he said. “Here or back at the office?”
It was nearly nine in the morning when he held his key to the reader and unlocked the door to the hotel room. He had no reason to believe Daphne wouldn’t be waiting for him as she’d told S-Man she would, but with a little time and distance, he also recognized he could have reacted better when the dust settled around them. Heshouldhave taken her in his arms, held her, been grateful they were both fine, that everyone on their team was fine. He could disagree with her decision to walk into that room and stand beside him, even be angry about it,andstill want to hold her, still want to be held by her. He’d never carried both of those desires inside him before, honestly hadn’t known it was possible. Not until the past eight hours, not until he’d had a moment to wind down, to consider the spectrum of everything he’d experienced.
With the shades drawn for the first time, he stepped into a dark room and closed the door gently behind him.
“I’m awake,” Daphne’s voice floated from the bed to the entry.
Uncharacteristically, he hesitated. Taking three tentative steps forward, he paused at the corner and leaned against the wall. She’d left the side table light on dim for him, and he could make out her form, the comforter contoured to her body as she lay on her side, watching him. He couldn’t see the details of her face, but the light reflected in a painting hanging on the wall, which then reflected in her eyes, showing him flashes of white in the dark.
“Is everything settled?” she asked.
No. Maybe. He could discern nothing from her voice. “Charges have been filed. They’re still going through everything at the house, so I suspect there will be more added over the next few days. Chanel is dead, but the other three, Malcom, Ken, and Adam Gareth, will serve their time.”
“And the victims?”
“The FBI moved them to a safe house. Gareth’s family is wealthy and holds enough power that they might try to make some of the evidence go away. A few therapists are with them, too, and they’re being offered medical help when they’re ready.” Anticipating her next question, he continued. “The clients they stopped tonight were a handful of the full client list, but charges will be brought against them as well. What those will be depends on the evidence they find and who’s willing to testify against Sweet Dreams. Hershorn is anticipating at least a handful of convictions.”
He heard more than saw Daphne nod. “You must be tired.”
“I’m honestly not sure,” he replied. Adrenaline still coursed lazily through his system, bubbling over rocks of anxiety about Daphne, dodging the debris of his confrontation with his siblings, skirting around his past colliding with his future.
Drawing the comforter back, she rose, her long limbs, clad in a silk cami and shorts, sleek in the soft light. Walking toward him, she held out a hand. A fierce sense of desperation gripped him, and he reached out, pulling her into his arms.
She came, wrapping hers around his waist, resting her head on his shoulder. He buried his face in her neck and held on, held her. A new sort of anchor as he waded through waters he’d never faced.
In the darkness, her hand stroked his back. The gentle touch breaking him down in a way he instinctively fought but knew he shouldn’t.
She didn’t offer platitudes or words of comfort. She simply held him, let him quietly unravel without judgment, without intrusion.
A lifetime passed before he could breathe again. When he exhaled, she loosened her hold on him, then stepped out of his arms, though her fingers trailed down to his hand. “I’ll go start a shower, come when you’re ready,” she said with a gentle squeeze.
