by J. Kenner
We’ve been sitting awkwardly on the bed, my body twisted to face him. But now, he takes me by the shoulders, and I gasp as he pushes me back so that I’m lying on the bed. Before I can catch my breath, he’s on top of me, one hand on my breast as he holds me steady and claims my mouth with his. I whimper, opening to him, my fingers clutching at his hair as I pull him closer, as if I can capture him in this moment and bring him back to me.
My heart pounds, my body fires, and a desperate heat settles between my thighs. “Please,” I beg, and when I hear his soft murmur of, Eliza, I know he’s back. Maybe not forever, but in this moment he’s mine, and, I—
“I’m sorry, El.”
In the time it takes me to process his words, he’s on the other side of the room. His eyes are wild, his breath coming hard. He looks like a man standing on a window ledge trying to convince himself not to jump.
I sit up, confused and embarrassed as I pull the sheet up over the thin tank top and panties that I’m wearing. “Quincy, what are you—”
“I can’t.” The words are heavy, and his expression impenetrably sad. “I’m sorry,” he says. “I’m so goddamn sorry.”
“But—”
He lifts a hand and shakes his head. “I’m sorry, Eliza,” he says again, looking me square in the eye. “I do want you, but—”
I frown, and force myself not to press him. Clearly he doesn’t want me. He hasn’t wanted me for a long time.
“You should get dressed,” he says. “We can get you a new phone on the way to the office.”
I nod, too numb to talk, and he leaves the room, pulling the door closed behind him.
I pull my knees up to my chest, then hug them tight as I draw long, deep breaths. Light streams into the room, and as I sit there and force myself not to cry, I see the photos framed on the top of the dresser across the room. There’s something familiar about them, and I frown, then crawl to the end of the bed for a better look.
I gasp, because these are photos of me. Standing beside the fountain near Buckingham Palace. Feeding the ducks beside the Serpentine. Sitting on the grass in Paris, the Eiffel Tower rising up in the distance. And one that a stranger took for us—me and Quincy holding hands in Montmartre, all of Paris spread out below us like a postcard.
He kept them.
I hug myself, hope rising. But the more I think about it, the more hope fades. Because even though it’s clear that he still wants me, it’s equally clear that he’s determined to stay far, far away.
12
Blam! Quince landed another punch to the center of the bag, then followed with a jab and a swift left hook. He hadn’t bothered with tape or gloves, and he’d been going at it with his bare hands since he’d heard Eliza turn on the shower. Christ, but he wanted her, and he’d almost let himself believe he could have her. But no—dammit, no.
He should never have touched her. She’d been through so damn much, and she deserved so much more than a man who’d inevitably hurt her. It didn’t matter how much he longed for her, he should have never opened that door.
But he had, and now the memories were pushing through. The dark humiliation, the searing pain. The terror. And the remorse.
Pow! Smack! Pow!
Again and again, over and over. As if he just needed to find the right combination of jabs and punches so that he could propel himself back into the past. Then maybe he’d have a chance to stop them. To start all over again.
Maybe she wouldn’t be dead.
Maybe the bastards would never have—No.
He sucked in air, forcing his arms to keep moving. Faster and faster until his muscles ached and his knuckles bled. Harder and faster, as if he could force the memories out with the blood, and then, maybe, he’d be whole again.
A fantasy. A goddamn, fucking fantasy, and he was too old for fairy stories. He’d seen too much to believe that the good always won out in the end. He of all people knew better. The good were punished. The good lost everything.
And there wasn’t a goddamn thing he could do about it.
Fuck.
One final punch, and he bent over, his hands on his knees as he sucked in air, exhausted. Physically and emotionally.
“Does it help?”
He froze, her soft voice seeming to lock him in to place. After a moment, he turned to see Eliza standing there. She was wearing the SSA track pants she’d borrowed last night, but the shirt was one of his. A threadbare Manchester United T-shirt he’d had for over a decade.
She tugged on the hem. “I slept in the tank top, so I borrowed this. It was sitting folded in a laundry basket, so I assumed it was clean. Do you mind?”
As far as he was concerned, the shirt had never looked better. “Yes. I mean, yes, it’s clean. And no, I don’t mind.”
A hint of a smile touched her lips, and she nodded. He recalled how many times she’d helped herself to his T-shirts during their months together. Eliza was the kind of girl who would happily dress to the nines out in the world, but inside the house she was happiest in his old pajama bottoms and T-shirts. He’d happily shared his wardrobe, thinking she’d never looked sexier than when she wore his clothes. Except, perhaps, when she was out of them.
“Did it?”
He realized she’d asked him something. “I’m sorry, what?”
She nodded toward the bag as she headed into the kitchen. “I don’t think you heard me the first time. I was asking again if it helps.”
He studied her, wondering if she understood the full depth of the question. “Yes. And no.” It was the simplest and truest answer. But he knew it wasn’t nearly enough. Considering the way she studied him as she helped herself to a cup of coffee, she knew it, too, and he held his breath, waiting for her to ask him again about what happened in London. To press until he told her about the monster inside. The beast he had to constantly battle back down.
She didn’t, though, and he told himself he was relieved.
But that was just one more of the lies he told himself.
“Okay,” Denny said, as Quince and Eliza looked over her shoulder. “You should be all good to go.” She passed the new iPhone to Eliza, who looked at it dubiously.
“I’m okay to use it? Even though they had it? My emails and everything?”
“We wiped your phone and logged you out of any apps that were already running. I just changed your ID, and I checked to make sure you’re not logged on anywhere else. I put your apps back on, too. So, yeah, it should all be pretty seamless.”
Eliza bit her lower lip and looked up at Quince. “It’s really okay to use?”
Denny laughed. “Oh, yeah. I see how I rank. Trust the guy you used to sleep with instead.”
Quince cringed as Eliza twisted her head to look between him and Denny, her mouth curving into a frown.
If Denny noticed, she didn’t say anything. Just rattled on with, “I swear, you’re good to go. But I have a filter set up. If your ID or email address end up logged in to any other device, I’ll get pinged.” She lifted a shoulder casually. “Just to be sure.”
Eliza nodded. “Okay. That should work. I don’t want to get a new cell number or new email address. Because what if Emma is trying to reach me?”
Quince caught her eye. “If she already emailed or messaged you and they deleted it, then emptied the trash, you’re out of luck. But Denny just changed your passwords to your Apple and Gmail accounts. Anything new, they won’t see.”
She looked between the two of them. “Okay, then. I trust you.”
It was a throwaway comment, but it settled in Quince’s heart in a way that felt both nice and a little bit dangerous.
“What now?” she asked.
“Briefing in five,” Denny said. She indicated the cavernous room now filled with over a dozen analysts manning their computer stations. “I’m waiting for a few reports, and then we’re meeting in the conference room with Ryan and Liam.”
“Anyone else assigned to the team?” Quince asked.
Denny shook her h
ead. “Just us chickens. Trevor and Leah are in New York. And Winston’s in Hong Kong.” The organization was still new, and Ryan was very selective. Which meant that the SSA still boasted only a handful of active field agents. “If we need more manpower, you know Ryan will pull someone else over from the dark side for a temporary assignment.”
“The dark side?” Eliza repeated. “What do you mean?”
“Denny used to work security at Stark International,” Quince explained. “And Ryan used to be the head honcho over there. Still is, technically, though he’s been kicked up the ladder. Day to day falls to someone else now, and Ryan oversees the daily grind here.”
“But if we need manpower, it’s a good picking ground,” Denny added. She stood, her hands resting on the top of her monitor. “Anytime this year would be good, Mario. Just saying.”
“Sending it now, boss,” the skinny analyst on the far side of the room said.
“That should be the last of the reports,” Denny said to him and Eliza. “And just in time.”
Quincy turned in the direction she was looking, and saw Ryan enter the conference room. The three of them followed, and a moment later, Liam joined them, sliding into one of the padded chairs with a broad grin.
“Let me guess,” Quincy said. “They put Pepsi back in the vending machine.”
“Funny man,” Liam said, then turned to Eliza with a conspiratorial gleam in his eye. “Sometimes it’s best to just ignore him.”
“Believe me, I know.” She tossed a grin his way, and Quincy’s chest tightened. For a moment, it felt like old times, the way it used to be so easy between the two of them.
“So what have you got?” Ryan asked.
“Just got off the phone with Enrique Castille,” Liam said, referring to the head of the EU task force. “They’re using the information you two retrieved to set up the sting to contact Corbu. It’s going down tonight. With luck, he’ll be in custody by tomorrow evening.”
“Excellent,” Quincy said.
“Good work, you two.” Ryan nodded to Quince and Denny.
“I’ll be more impressed with us once we find Emma and the princess,” Quince said.
“I sent an email just now,” Eliza said. “But I doubt she’ll answer it even if she gets it. She’s too careful. My whole life she’s told me that in a pinch you can’t communicate through regular channels.”
“Pretty intense philosophy for a private investigator,” Liam said, voicing what Quince was thinking.
“She’s thorough.” Eliza’s eyes dipped to the tabletop, a reaction that probably slipped under everyone else’s radar but caught Quince’s attention. It was, after all, Eliza’s most obvious tell, both at the poker table and in her daily life. Any fib, and she lowered her gaze.
Which made him wonder what secret she was keeping about Emma.
“We’re getting ahead of ourselves,” Ryan said, leaning back in his chair and looking at each of them in turn. “Right now, we’re assuming that Emma has the princess with her. But we’re basing that assumption on a mountain of circumstantial evidence. Are we getting any closer to finding actual proof? Figure out how those two got together—if they got together—and we may have a better chance of figuring out where they are.”
Eliza leaned forward, looking around Quince so that she could focus on Denny. “Did those usernames I gave you last night help?”
Before they’d left, she and Denny had made a list of possible usernames that Emma might have utilized while navigating the dark web.
“Afraid not,” Denny said. “But we knew it was a long shot.”
“What was?” Liam asked.
“We were hoping that Emma had gone into the dark web forums with a username that Eliza knows. That way we’d have a better chance of following her trail.”
“I texted Lorenzo right after Denny fixed up my phone and told him to call me. But he hasn’t yet. He might know the password, but I doubt it. That’s not the kind of thing Emma would think about sharing.”
“It’s okay. I’ve got another lead,” Denny said. “Since I couldn’t get in as Emma, I made up my own username and went in. We know she was looking into sex trafficking, so I followed those kinds of rabbit trails.”
Quince heard the enthusiasm in her voice and smiled. “And since you’re telling us all this, I’m guessing one of those trails led somewhere?”
“The Perlmutter Hotel in Pasadena. And one guess who owns it.”
“Scott Lassiter?” Eliza guessed.
Denny tapped her nose. “Got it in one. And it gets better. The chatter was about an auction for extremely high quality merchandise.”
Eliza’s eyes went wide, and Quince saw her shiver. He reached over and took her hand, then gave it a gentle squeeze. She and Emma hadn’t been trafficked, but God knew they’d been abused. And none of this could be easy on her.
She squeezed back. And she didn’t let go.
Across the table, Ryan pushed away from the table and stood. “Obviously, we’re all thinking that the princess was the merchandise in question. And I have to say, I think that’s a solid bet.”
Eliza frowned. “So that would mean that Emma learned the truth and got her out before the auction took place?” She tilted her head, her forehead furrowed in thought. “So she’s poking around online, trying to get information on sex trafficking and stuff. And Mr. X sets her up. Tells her to meet him at Lassiter’s party. Probably says he can be a source.”
“Probably plans to kill her,” Denny added, picking up the thread. “She’s poking around where she doesn’t belong.”
“But then she learns about the auction,” Eliza continues. “I have no idea how she gets the princess away, though.”
“For now, we assume that she does,” Quince put in. “Obviously, she has more important things on her mind than making the meeting with Mr. X.”
“But since I don’t know that, when I’m trying to find my sister and that’s my only lead, I decide to go in her place.”
Liam nodded thoughtfully. “And Mr. X is pretty damn surprised to see you there, but considers it a great opportunity to find out where the princess is, because—for some reason—he’s convinced that you took her.”
“But why would Emma be the only suspect?” Eliza asked.
Quince released her hand as he pushed back his chair, spurred to action by the force of his realization. “There’s video,” he said. “Somewhere, there’s surveillance footage.” He smiled at Eliza. “And that footage shows you taking the princess away.”
13
“Me?” I gape at him, my jaw literally hanging open until I realize what I’m doing and give myself a solid mental shake. “Quincy, what the hell are you talking about? I didn’t steal a princess? I can’t even imagine the steps that would go into stealing a princess.”
“Maybe not, but Emma could, couldn’t she?”
I nod. “Well, yes. I mean, it’s not out of the realm of possibility. That’s sort of the assumption we’ve been going on. But you said I’m on the video.”
“Let me put that another way. The video shows someone who looks like you. And Eliza, love, you two do look an awful lot alike.”
“Not really. She’s four inches taller than me and her hair is red. Plus, she’s almost a D-cup, and I’m really not,” I add, glancing down at my chest to accentuate the point.
“I’ve seen the proof. Remember the photo of you two on the Santa Monica Pier. Black and white, and your hair looked almost the same color. She was taller for sure, but in those silly sweatshirts you were wearing, bra size was a mystery. And in a video, she would have been alone. No way to tell how tall she was without a point of comparison.”
I continue to gape at him, trying to make sense of what he’s saying. Denny seems to get it, though. She leans forward, her blond hair hanging like a curtain around her face. “You’re saying Emma got away with the princess, and that somewhere there’s surveillance footage which shows the whole thing?”
“That’s what I’m saying,”
Quincy says, and as their words sink in, I realize I don’t really have an argument.
“Too bad we can’t ask Red if we’re right,” Denny adds. “But I should hear back about the fingerprints soon.”
Both Quincy and I turn to look at her. “You didn’t tell me you got fingerprints.”
She grins. “I was right there checking his pulse and playing concerned citizen. It was the least I could do.”
“You’re really good,” I say.
She wrinkles her nose with pleasure. “I know.”
Quincy ignores our banter. Instead, he pushes back from the table and starts to pace. “Assuming we’re right, then that means that Emma figured out where they were holding the princess, managed to get there, get around security, and get the girl free. Again,” he says with a sideways glance at me, “that’s impressive for a PI.”
I lift a shoulder. “We ran away when she was fifteen. You learn a lot of survival tricks being on your own that young.”
“It’s got to be the Perlmutter,” Liam says, and we all look in his direction. “The odds are good that Emma was operating with much of the same information that we have. That would lead her to the Perlmutter. It’s owned by Lassiter, who we already know is into some dicey shit.”
“But he’s never been on the radar for something as egregious as sex trafficking,” Ryan adds.
“Maybe he got in over his head,” Quincy says. “But Liam’s correct. The Perlmutter is our best bet. Not only is it our only bloody lead, but it’s also got a basement.”
“Quince is right,” Ryan says. “I remember Jackson talking about it once.”
It takes me a second, but I remember that Jackson Steele, the architect famous for designing the Winn Building in Manhattan is also Damien Stark’s brother. Not to mention the architect for The Domino.
“He said the Perlmutter was unusual for Southern California because it has a basement and a sub-basement. It was a bank before it was a hotel, and apparently that’s where the vaults were. He and Damien thought about buying the property at one time. Considering Lassiter signed on the dotted line, I guess they changed their minds.”
