I limped back to the living room and eased into the wingchair by the fireplace. The box of kittens near my feet rustled with tiny movements. One bold calico poked its head over the edge, watching me with suspicious blue eyes.
This didn't feel like captivity anymore. Not exactly. But I couldn't name what it was becoming—this strange limbo where I felt both protected and trapped, cared for and controlled.
I opened the book, letting Hugo's words wash over me while the kittens mewled softly at my feet.
Days blurred together. Two? Three? Time felt elastic here. I measured days by the weight of Les Misérables in my hands, by how many pages I'd turned since breakfast. The kittens became my secondary clock—bolder in their play, steadier on their paws, their tiny bodies filling out with proper food and care.
I'd reached the section where Javert first began his relentless pursuit of Jean Valjean. The inspector's single-minded obsession reminded me of my own investigative work—that tunnel vision when you knew you were close to something big. I wondered if anyone was still chasing the Bellante story, or if my disappearance had killed the momentum. Probably the former. Surely Mark wouldn't have let the story die in my absence.
Slowly, my ankle improved enough that I could walk without wincing. The sickly yellow-green color was fading, the swelling almost completely gone. I ventured more often to the solarium, where the humid air wrapped around me like a blanket while I read about Fantine's desperation and Valjean's redemption.
The grey kitten had claimed me as her preferred human. She followed me from room to room on increasingly steady legs, mewing pitifully if I moved too fast for her to keep up. I'd find her curled in my lap within minutes of sitting down anywhere, her purr a constant vibration against my thigh.
Meals took on a rhythm. Ellie humming while she cooked. Kara arriving precisely three minutes before food was served. Cam silently setting the table with military precision. Alex appearing last, her eyes sweeping the room before she sat.
"Pass the salt," became familiar words in my mouth. "More wine?" no longer felt like a question I had no right to ask.
Evenings brought us to the living room, the news droning while Cam cleaned her weapons and Kara reviewed security logs. Ellie usually worked on some craft project, her fingers never still. Alex sat apart, her laptop casting blue shadows across her face.
I found myself watching them all, memorizing their habits. The way Ellie tucked her locs behind her ear when concentrating. How Kara always checked the locks twice before bed. Cam's silent nod when relieving someone from watch.
No one tried to kill me. No one came for me. The world outside continued without me, and I found myself breathing easier each night, the knot between my shoulders loosening incrementally with every uneventful sunset.
It was almost possible to forget why I was here. Almost possible to pretend this was just an extended vacation in a Gothic mansion with four beautiful, dangerous women and a family of cats.
Almost.
Dinner was unexpectedly normal. Ellie had made comfort food: spaghetti with marinara and garlic bread.
Kara and Ellie were arguing about basketball when Alex slipped into the dining room and took her usual seat at the head of the table. The argument was light, good-natured—something about whether the Knicks or the Celtics had any chance this season.
"The Celtics haven't been relevant in years," Kara said, gesturing with her fork, a rare animation lighting her usually stoic features.
"Please," Ellie shot back, reaching for her wine glass. "Like the Knicks have room to talk. They’ve been rebuilding since I was in high school."
“That recent?” Kara raised an eyebrow, and Ellie flicked a breadcrumb at her.
I hid my smile behind my napkin. It struck me as surreal, watching these women bicker about basketball statistics like college roommates instead of the highly trained operatives they were.
Under the table, the kittens tumbled over my feet, batting at shoelaces and each other with equal enthusiasm.
I almost missed it when Cam leaned toward Alex, her voice barely audible beneath Kara and Ellie’s debate. “What about the Scorpions?"
The room went silent so abruptly I heard the candle flames sputter in a draft. Kara's fork stilled halfway to her mouth. Ellie's eyes cut to Alex, all playfulness gone from her expression. Even the kittens seemed to sense the shift, their play pausing for a heartbeat.
Alex took a slow sip of her wine before answering, her voice carefully neutral. "As far as I know, there aren't any in this area." Her tone was neutral, but her knuckles whitened around the stem of her glass.
I frowned, confused. Scorpions? In upstate New York? In winter?
Then my brain caught up. Not actual scorpions.TheScorpions.
The name surfaced from months of research, journal entries cross-referenced with police reports. Lorenzo Bellante's personal enforcement crew. The elite killers. They were the crew who handled problems that needed to disappear permanently. Each marked with a scorpion tattoo on their collarbone.
Just like the one Alex wore.
My appetite vanished. I set down my fork carefully, trying not to let my hand shake.
Alex's eyes flicked to me, something unreadable passing through them before she looked away.
