“Kill you?” He tilts his head again. “We at Fox Rex are revolutionaries, not murderers.” He picks up the puzzle box, which is once again sealed. “Here—as a reminder of what’s to come.”
I take the box, confused, but he’s still smiling as if nothing about this is out of the ordinary. “Am I supposed to open it?” I say, and he shrugs.
“That is entirely up to you.” He nods toward me, the malevolent glint in his gold-rimmed eyes returning. “Do try to stay out of harm’s way, Miss Bright. I would hate for anything to happen to you before we meet again.”
He walks to the door, which opens on its own, making it clear that our conversation wasn’t private. As soon as he’s gone, I pretend to inspect the box again and place it in my pocket for safekeeping, only to palm the tiny tracking device that someone sewed into the hem of Kit’s cardigan—a tracking device no one would be looking for, not when it’s supposed to be his. I could activate the panic button, though if I really am about to get out of here unharmed, then the last thing I want is to end the mission early.
But while I still don’t have the proof I need that Ben is involved,I have enough hints and circumstantial evidence to know that with enough pressure, with enoughtime,Guy—John—will let something slip that he didn’t mean to. That’s all I need—more time. More time to talk to him. More time to earn his trust, as much as it can be earned.
My gaze drifts toward the leather-bound book, and as I wait for Dylan to fetch me, I pretend to browse the shelves again and slip the silver disc in the crevice between two misshapen spines.
Chapter Eight
Kit
Where is she?
Dylan, where the hell is she?
You have thirty seconds to tell me exactly what you’ve done with her, or I swear on all that is holy that you will spend the rest of your pitiful life regretting this.
WHERE IS SHE?
—Text messages sent by Christopher Abbott-Montgomery, Earl of Clarence, 1 February 2024, 6:07p.m.
When Dylan finally fetches mefrom the study, he’s sporting a fresh and quickly swelling black eye. He says nothing as he puts the bag back over my head, and only then do I allow myself an excruciating grin. I will never be Guy’s ally, but I won’t say no to his attempts to sucker me in.
The black van drops me off, still blindfolded, a quarter of a mile from my flat building. My hands are duct-taped together this time, but thanks to Ingrid, the PPO who sacrificed her life to save mine in the bombing, I know how to break that bond,and within minutes, I’m walking through the freezing cold toward the entrance of our building, trying to keep my teeth from chattering and causing even more pain in my jaw.
“Evangeline!”
My name explodes into a chorus as more than a dozen agents and personal protection officers swarm me, some pouring out from the lobby while others appear in the shadows around me, shielding my body with theirs. I’m so overwhelmed that I forget they have a real reason to be scared shitless, and when I stumble over my numb feet, a protection officer scoops me up and carries me into the lobby.
He and half a dozen other men with guns immediately cram themselves into a waiting lift, and before I know it, the doors are opening on our floor, which is also crawling with uniforms. Not just MI5 agents and PPOs, but police, too. Someone shouts, or maybe they’ve already radioed ahead, and as the overzealous officer finally lets me down, Singh appears amidst the chaos.
“Evangeline,” he says, and I detect a distinct note of relief in his voice. “We have a doctor waiting. We’ve already alerted the local hospital, and we have a helicopter on standby to take you to London—”
“I’m fine,” I say, my jaw agonizingly stiff from the cold. “Where’s Kit?”
Singh blinks as he tries to usher me toward the nearest open door. “Lord Clarence is secure. You need to—”
“Where is he?”I dig my heels in, and to his credit, Singh pauses. “I’ll talk to you and a doctor and everyone else after, but I need to see him.Now.”
Without further argument, Singh leads me through the chaos toward the flat Kit and I share. Yellow tape blocks off the entrance, but we both duck beneath it, and Singh guides me around the broken glass to the closed bedroom door. He knocks lightly, but before he can speak, I slip past him and push the door open, not wanting to keep Kit in agonizing suspense any longer.
But as soon as I do, something clinks against the door, and I pause, confused. A chunk of blue spherical glass catches on the edge, and as I try to figure out what it is, a familiar scent hits me, strong and almost overpowering.
Kit’s bottle of cologne is shattered.
It’s not the only thing that’s in pieces. Picture frames and his alarm clock lie broken on the carpet, and even his laptop is cracked beneath a sizable dent in the wall. The things that don’t easily break—pillows, books, even articles of clothing—he’s torn apart, and my heart drops to my knees. Nearly all of his things are destroyed, but mine remain untouched.
“Kit?” I say softly, glancing around the dim room, lit only by the light filtering in from the main living area. I don’t see him, and briefly I wonder if he’s in the bathroom until a strange wheezing reaches my ears. Frowning, I venture inside, tiptoeing around the broken glass.
Huddled on the floor beside the bed, with his back against the mattress and his knees hugged to his chest, is Kit. His entire body trembles with silent sobs, and a dark trickle of blood runs down his forearm, pooling in the crook of his elbow. I inhale a silent breath of surprise and kneel slowly beside him, joining him on the carpet.
“Hi,” I whisper. The light in the doorway shifts, and I realize Singh’s brought backup in case—what, in case Kit tries to attack me? But I know what a breakdown looks like. I can feel the terror and anxiety pulsing through him, and it takes everything I have not to gather him in my arms and snap at the agents to get the hell away from both of us.
Several seconds tick by, but finally Kit raises his head enough to look at me. His eyes are rimmed with red, and there’s a shallow cut on his chin that makes me want to cry. “Ev?” he whispers, as if he doesn’t really believe it’s me.
