His Sword

by Holly Hart

  I don’t know where the time went.

  “I know you wouldn’t have respected me, and I would deserve it. You wouldn’t have wanted me to con Charlie. I knew it even when Robbie convinced me into doing it, but I told myself it was okay. I said I’d do anything to save you. Only…”

  My voice cracks and I close my eyes once more, swaddling my face in my hands. My stomach is exhausted and tender from hours of sobbing.

  “… Only it’s not true. I won’t. I couldn’t take that bitch from CPS’ offer. I couldn’t throw Tilly under the bus like that. Or Charlie…”

  Dad’s heart rate monitor bleeps once. I don’t register the sound at first. I’m too bound up in my own problems: too worried about dad’s health to notice as it dwindles away right in front of me.

  Then there’s another beep.

  My eyes burst open, I look up. Dad’s face – already pale – is now white and ghostlike. Something’s wrong.

  I scramble to my feet, moving too slowly. I’m numb. Everything feels as though I’m stumbling through quicksand.

  “Help,” I say. But my voice is quiet, way too quiet to be heard. “Help!”

  Then all hell breaks loose. The line on dad’s heart rate monitor spikes: climbing; climbing; climbing. It’s at ninety-five, then a hundred, then a hundred and ten, and then another spike, and then it’s past a hundred and fifty.

  I’m no medical professional, but I know that he can’t bear this kind of pressure for long. He’s too frail, his body too fragile.

  And his mind –

  – After months in a medically induced coma, I don’t even know if there’s anything left of dad and the man he was to carry on the fight.

  The hospital room door clatters open. Things start to operate at a different speed. A nurse in blue scrubs runs in.

  It’s strange what your mind focuses on at times like this. I see the spectacles dancing on a string around her neck. I see her hair switching from side to side – almost in slow motion.

  “You: move,” she orders. It sounds slower, stretched out in my head.

  “Move!”

  Then it doesn’t. Then there’s another nurse, and another. After all I’ve said about Brookdale Hospital, I still can’t do anything but hope that I was wrong; that they are better at the job than I made out.

  Because if they’re not; dad’s dead.

  Finally, as though my body remembers how to reassert control, my feet start to move. I press myself against the wall; then inch out of the hospital room. I can’t see this. I can’t bear to watch my own father die in front of me.

  The world is an explosion of bedside alarms, and nurses shouting orders at each other. I hear, “code!” It doesn’t take a genius to figure out what happens next.

  Another nurse thunders past me. She stops, just in time – perhaps noticing my tear-streaked face. “Go to the waiting room,” she says. “You don’t need to see this.”

  “Will –,” I croak. “Will he be okay?”

  The nurse winces as I speak. She gives me a sad, tired frown, with sad, tired eyes.

  “I can’t promise you anything, girl. Just go.”

  I move in slow motion and I finally do as I’m told. The hospital smells on the way out, just as it did on the way in.

  Through the hurt, through the pain – through the fear of what’s coming – another thought takes hold in my mind. It’s like a seed, germinating there, sprouting roots.

  Once it has sprouted, it’s lodged there. Stuck. I can’t stop thinking about it.

  I can’t save dad. But I can save someone else’s. I can’t let Tilly lose her father like I’m about to lose mine. Even if that means that I won’t be by my father’s bedside when he passes. Dad would understand. He’d want me to be the daughter he raised, not the girl I turned into.

  I hope.

  Because I know how to stop Landon Winchester.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Charlie

  Tim, my bodyguard and driver of several years, taps his ear.

  “He’s here, boss.”

  “Send him in.”

  We’re standing in the kitchen area of Thorne Enterprises’ HQ. Tim emptied out every last chef, leaving it strangely quiet – except for the bubbling over the sound of a forgotten saucepan of pasta.

  It’s a strange place to meet – but it works perfectly.

  This is the kind of meeting I don’t want on the record. I don’t want my guest caught on any CCTV cameras on the way in. I don’t want him signing for an entrance badge, nor do I want the prospect of a receptionist remembering him later on.

  No, this way is better.

  I hear footsteps from the corner, then watch as two burly men in ill-fitting suits – weapons strapped to their hips – lead a third man. He’s short, perhaps five foot seven, with scruffy black hair, tanned skin, and a salt-and-pepper beard.

  “I’ll take it from here, boys,” Tim mutters. He holds his palm up, indicating for my guest to stop. The man does as he’s told, grimacing and holding his arms out, ready to be searched. Tim does the honors.

  “He’s clean, boss,” Tim says as he finishes patting the scruffy-haired man down. “Want me to stay and –”

  I shake my head. “Leave us, Tim. My guest and I will be fine, won’t we?”

  Tim bites his lip before he says something he shouldn’t. I watch as his muscles twitch – his body fighting with the natural urge to disagree – before he acquiesces. He nods and departs.

  “So,” I say. My voice sounds strangely quiet in the empty industrial kitchen.

  My guest says nothing.

  “You have a name?”

  The mysterious guest holds his tongue long enough for me to wonder whether there was any point bringing him here at all. Finally, he breaks his silence.

  “Jason.”

  “Is that your real name?”

  No answer.

  I don’t suppose I’ll get a surname, and I don’t particularly care to ask. One of the more disagreeable aspects, of running a multibillion dollar corporation, are moments like this.

  “You know why you’re here, Jason?”

  No movement.

  “I’ll do the talking, then,” I smile. “I understand Harper hired you to follow a young lady.”

  “Your wife,” Jason finally grunts. He says the words without judgment – with almost complete disinterest. I guess if you’re a PI, or a corporate spy; meetings like this quickly become old news.

  I incline my head in agreement: “My wife.”

  Jason shrugs.

  The cloth of his nondescript navy blue canvas jacket tugs against his body as he does so – revealing that despite his slight height, he has a more than muscular frame. The man radiates danger. I’m not surprised Tim didn’t want to leave me alone with him.

  “Tell me what you found,” I say.

  Jason doesn’t hesitate this time. “She’s got a father, late fifties, in the hospital. She was homeless for a bit. I spoke to a few people who knew her on the street –”

  I feel like I might stumble at any moment. I pinch the bridge of my nose, and my forehead knits together. The idea that Penny – my Penny – could once have lived on the streets is shocking.

  “Wait,” I say. “Her father: what’s wrong with him?”

  Jason’s eyes flicker, almost as though he’s reading from an imaginary notebook. They go glassy for a second, and then he returns to life. I idly wonder whether he has a photographic memory.

  “Brain tumor: operable, but not on his insurance.”

  “She never mentioned,” I whisper.

  Hell, I guess there was a lot Penny never told me about. Still, it hurts that a woman I allowed to get so close to me could hide something so terrible from me.

  “That’s because you were her mark,” Jason says.

  I’ve suspected this for a while, but to hear it directly from Jason’s lips, cold and impassionate, still hurts.

  “Walk me through it. Don’t sugarcoat it.”

  “W
e found the evidence on the housemate’s phone. They searched through a dozen different targets before settling on you. I guess she did it to pay for her dad’s treatment. Who knows? I can’t figure out why she married you, though. That bit doesn’t make sense.”

  “It was never part of the plan,” I mutter.

  The floor feels unsteady beneath me.

  “Should I go?” Jason asks. He doesn’t try and comfort me – and to be honest – I appreciate it.

  “Yes.” I mutter. I don’t much feel like talking.

  “Jason, wait.”

  I catch the private spy just before he turns the corner and leaves the kitchen for good. I have a sense that I might never see him again. I don’t know why I stop him – just a vague feeling that there must be something more. That Penny couldn’t have tricked me so easily.

  “Was there anything else?”

  Jason cocks his head, and his eyelids narrow – just a touch. From the look in his eyes, I wonder if he’s planning on holding something back from me.

  He chews his lip; then seems to decide that whatever happens, it doesn’t matter a whole lot to him. “She was being followed.”

  My head snaps in Jason’s direction. Any sense that my world’s falling apart flares, then dies away. Suddenly I feel like the old me – a predator on the hunt. This is the jigsaw piece that doesn’t fit. There’s no reason for Penny to have been followed, not unless something bigger lurks underneath the surface…

  “Did she know?”

  The spy shakes his head. “The guy was good; very good. He thought I didn’t spot him, but I don’t make mistakes.”

  He pauses. “Will that be all?”

  My mind whirls.

  Suddenly the different parts of the puzzle start to fall into place. I haven’t got the whole picture – it’s like looking at abstract art through fog – but I’ve got enough. I’ve got enough to know that I want answers – and I want them from Penny herself.

  “No,” I growl. “I’ll double your fee. Go find my wife.”

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Penny

  I pull the sales tags off some hastily-purchased clothing, strip last night’s makeup completely off, and start again. For a second, I’m gripped by my reflection in the diner’s restroom mirror.

  I look like crap.

  I look nothing like Penny Thorne; the effortlessly stylish billionaire’s wife. I’m not sure if that description was ever true. If it was, it certainly isn’t now.

  I look like exactly what I am: tired, scared, and ready to pass out.

  “Pull it all together already,” I grunt.

  Between the new clothes and the thick coat of makeup, I look more like a stripper than the naïve virgin I was just a couple of weeks ago. Okay, maybe not a stripper… but Robbie’s been urging me to take more pride in my appearance for months, years even.

  Hell of a time to start.

  I glance down at the cheap makeup kit that ate up the last of the credit on my card. Whatever happens now, I’ll be eating ramen for weeks.

  I take a second to compose myself, closing my eyes and picturing Tilly’s cute, pig-tailed face. It hurts: reminding me of everything I’ve lost. That’s why I’m doing this – so that my mistakes don’t cost Tilly and Charlie their shot at life – their shot at being a family.

  Then it’s time to go.

  I slip my cell phone into the back pocket of my slightly-too-tight jeans, sweep the sales tags into an overflowing trashcan, and stride out of the diner.

  It’s Saturday morning – early – and the city has barely begun to stir. I like New York when it’s like this. It feels warmer and less impersonal when it’s quiet. More like a little town out East, when it’s anything but.

  I cross the road at the lights.

  When I’m half way across the street, the imposing building, on the other side, blocks out the sun. I take a second to study it: my target.

  “Hey, lady!” A yellow cab driver hoots. “Get out of the freaking road. You want to get yourself killed?”

  The sound of the cab’s horn definitely breaks that particular ‘quiet’ fantasy. I wave my hand in apology, and hurry across the last few yards of asphalt.

  Get it together, girl, I think.

  This is about where my plan ends, and cold hard reality takes over. What’s that phrase? “No plan survives contact with the enemy?” Well – that presumes you actually have a plan.

  All I have is an airy-fairy collection of hopes and aspirations… and I’m quickly beginning to think that won’t be enough.

  A security guard dressed in a dark blue woolen jumper sits at the top of the steps. There’s no sign of the press conference that was held right here less than twenty-four hours ago. The Museum of Natural History isn’t even open yet.

  I climb the steps regardless.

  “You lost?” The guard grunts, barely looking up from the sugared doughnut occupying the majority of his attention, “– because, this ain’t a tourist office.”

  I giggle. I hate the sound it makes: so fake. It’s not me, but right now, it’s ‘the me’ I have to be. “I was hoping you could help me…?”

  The guard looks up: already grumbling; then stops dead. “Didn’t you hear me –?”

  I bite my lip. Not in a nervous, inexperienced way – but an intentional, coy, sexy way. I remember the look in Charlie’s eyes when I did this, and even though I hate using my body like this, it seems to have the same effect on this security guard.

  “Oh,” the man says, cutting himself off sharply. “I’m sorry. I didn’t understand…”

  Understand what, you creep? That I was pretty?

  Of course, I don't say that. “Oh no,” I giggle again. “That’s all right.”

  “You needed help?”

  I can’t help staring at the doughnut crumbs littering the man’s portly belly, nor the sugary smudges on his face. Still, I don’t think my obvious fascination with the man’s hygiene habits hurts my cause. The guard mistakes it for a sign of interest; fine by me.

  I turn to leave, toying with a long strand of red hair. “I mean, if you’re busy…”

  The security guard stands up so quickly I’m forced to hide a smile. “No! I mean… Is there anything I can do to help?”

  I fake a sniffle. The man’s face wrinkles with concern. “Are you okay?”

  I nod, allowing a tear – mostly fake – to crystallize at the corner of my eye. “To tell you the truth,” I say. “I’m not. I’m in a hole, and –”

  My voice cracks; for real, this time.

  “Hey,” the guard says, brushing my arm. “You need to sit or something? You look upset.”

  No shit. My dad’s in the hospital, and I might have caused the man I love to lose his daughter. Other than that, my day’s going great. How about yours?

  The fact that the guard has now graduated to stroking my arm doesn’t escape me. I don’t stop him. This is going exactly as I had hoped. Besides his beer belly, the man’s face is nothing to write home about. He’s only in his early 30s, but he looks a different species to Charlie Thorne.

  “I’m okay, I’m okay,” I say. I fake a trip, and end up in the man’s arms.

  “There, there,” he says, patting my back. His hug lingers long seconds – and my skin starts to crawl before he releases me. “Come on, girl –”

  “Penny,” I say. “I’m Penny.”

  “So what’s the deal, Penny?” He says. “Why’s a pretty girl like you got tears in her eyes on a fine morning like this?”

  I stop myself from recoiling. The interest this man is showing in me is distasteful. It’s more than just gentlemanly; way past that, in fact. If anything, it’s predatory. He sees a crying woman, and his first thought is of conquest, not to help.

  “You want the truth?” I say, making eye contact and holding it. “My husband –”

  I see the light in the guard’s eyes die the second he finds out I’m “taken.” Then it roars back.

  “– He’s trying to take my ch
ild in the divorce. I’ll do anything to stop it.” My teeth graze my lower lip again. “– Anything.”

  The subtext is clear. So clear, in fact, it takes the security guard in front of me a couple of seconds to respond. He almost double takes before clearing his throat.

  “What do you mean, ‘take your kid’?” He growls, suddenly flexing his chest. “That can’t be legal, can it?”

  I shrug, playing the part of the naïve young girl to a tee. “I don’t know, he’s a powerful man, and –”

  “Well, I won’t let him,” the security guard says. “I’m Kevin, by the way.”

  I expect a handshake, and get a hug: of course; Kevin’s too hands-y for something as common-place as a handshake.

  “Oh, I don’t know,” I whisper. “What could you do to help?”

  “Anything,” Kevin declares as though it’s a declaration of love, “whatever it takes.”

  I blink. “You mean it?” I ask, toying with my hair.

  Kevin nods. “How could I say no to a pretty young thing like you?” He winks.

  I conceal a shiver. I can think of a lot of ways… I don’t know what it is, but there’s something about Kevin that’s just a little bit off. Still, as long as I can work it to my advantage, I will.

  “Can I ask you something?”

  “I mean it – anything.”

  “Do the security cameras in the museum have audio?”

  Kevin’s forehead knits together. “The cameras –?” He grunts. I get the sense the question he was expecting was a little more personal. “I guess so. Why?”

  I’m suddenly tongue-tied. In truth, I never expected to get this far. My plan was far-fetched at the start, and it’s only got more tangled the further I’ve gone down the rabbit hole.

  Kevin reaches out and squeezes my shoulder, mistaking my uncertainty for hesitation. Yuck.

  “Don’t worry. You can trust me,” he says.

  “Okay,” I lie. “I believe you. I’ll tell you everything.”

  “Good.”

  “My husband brought me here yesterday. We haven’t –.” I break off, closing my eyes for show.