"I will go to Spain, arrange her freedom and explain my position. I have a meeting with Declan anyway." He waves off the possible difficulty of removing Sydney from police custody after fleeing a murder scene.
"Fine." I agree because the fight is not worth the prize.
We drop anchor for the night in a quiet cove in Bulgaria’s Burgas Bay, the large yacht rocking gently in the protected waters. Robert takes the helicopter to the Burgas airport, where he will fly on to Barcelona, then head north to retrieve Sydney. She never seemed to fully believe he died. A smile tugs at my lips as I imagine her reaction at finding him alive. Will she hug or punch him?
Petra comes out of the bathroom, steam from her shower filling the stateroom with fragrance. I lay my book on my chest and watch her as she sits in front of the mirrored dressing table. She meets my gaze in the reflection.
"You are worried the council will be angry?"
"No." I shake my head.
"Then what?" she asks, unwinding the towel from her wet hair, sending thin rivulets of water down her bare back. I sigh, and she smiles. "Lenox, you worry so much." Petra picks up her brush and pulls it through her hair. "This is all working out beautifully."
"That does not concern you?"
Her hand stills, and she turns on the padded stool to face me.
"I think Robert is a dangerous man. But I can see how all this"—she uses the brush to indicate the sphere we live in—"works to his favor."
"He is plotting something beyond what we can see."
She raises a brow. "I'm sure you are right. But I think he will follow through on the promises he had made us."
"I agree." I fall silent, unable to express the concern that keeps me restless. Perhaps, once I've spoken fully with the council, it will become clearer to me. Dan will be done with Homeland Security soon, and then I’ll have his advice to turn to as well. While I trust Rachel, she doesn’t have the same deep background knowledge that Dan does.
"What is it?" Petra asks, beginning to braid her hair. The towel covering her slips down to her waist, and my eyes run over her body as her hands work. There is no shyness between us now—our relationship has deepened, aged like a fine cognac. Sweet and strong, yet still sharp. I am wary not to let it become numbing. It would be easy to drift away into dreams with this creature.
When our eyes meet again, she is smiling. "Lenox," she purrs, standing, leaving the towel behind, and coming to the bed. She removes my book from my chest, placing it on the bedside table.
She puts a delicate hand on either side of my face. "Together we can accomplish anything. Whatever Robert Maxim is trying to do, he is not so foolish as to think we are not watching him closely."
I tug her down to me. She lays her wet head against my naked chest and toys with the gold chain around my neck as she butterflies warm kisses across my collarbones. "I know, moya domashnya tvaryna." I’ve taken to calling her my pet in Ukrainian. "But I worry about more than just the two of us."
She angles her head so that she can see my face. "You worry what he plans around Sydney."
"Yes." I nod. "He left her the bulk of his fortune."
"She would never have believed he was dead otherwise."
"I'm not so sure she does. But what I wonder is why he wanted her to think that he was gone?"
She sits up and cocks her head. "The more people who don't know he’s alive, the better, you must see that."
"Of course I do. But..." I shake my head. "He is going to pull something."
"Pull something?" she teases me with a soft smile. "Sydney can take care of herself. Maybe he did it to try to force out her feelings for him." I don't answer. "Perhaps losing him makes her realize how much she cares for him. Maybe she will miss him."
"Maybe." I don't want to go down this road… talking about feelings.
Petra reaches for my lips, kissing me. "Let's not talk anymore," she whispers. Once again, she's read my mind.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Sydney
The door opens, and a man in a navy-blue suit enters. Gray salts his dark hair, and bags drape beneath his brown eyes. His eyebrows stretch from one temple to the other. His olive skin is splotched with red.
The detective sits across from me and smiles, deep lines bracketing his mouth. He's trying for good cop. Okay, I'll play. I smile back. They let me keep my dog, so seem to be buying the poor, frightened tourist bit.
Blue rests his head on my thigh. I glance down at him. He blinks, the black of his eyelashes stark against the white fur circling his eyes. I bring my attention back to the detective. His suit is wrinkled like he's at the end of a long day. Me too, fella.
Shifting in my seat, I try to ease the ache in my back. Why are we just sitting here? "I'd like a lawyer," I say, my voice even.
He clears his throat. "We are waiting for Homeland Security." His accent is thick but understandable.
"Homeland Security?" I ask. Shit, do they know who I am?
He nods, then glances around the room. I follow his gaze. There is a camera in each corner and a two-way mirror. We are not alone.
His gaze returns to mine. There is something in there… Is he a Joyful Justice sympathizer?
My heart thumps a little faster, and Blue shifts, sensing the change in me. I lay my hand on his head again.
I'm not in cuffs. Maybe they call in Homeland Security for every American in custody? It's possible they don't know who I am.
"You are here on holiday?" the detective asks. I nod. "And this man, he breaks into your rental?"
"Yes. It was horrible."
"So you are forced to defend yourself."
Uh-huh. "Yes." I let my voice hitch like I might cry.
"Very unfortunate. I am sorry this happened to you in my country. We do not have so much violent crime here, you know. Not so many guns like you have at home in America."
"He had a gun."
The detective nods. "But you have a pole and a good dog, so you win." He raises those impressive brows of his in question.
"I want a lawyer," I say again.
He shakes his head. "No need. No need." He waves his hand. "Obviously self-defense. It's no problem."
"No problem?" Me killing a person is no problem? Is a pig about to fly by?
"Come, I take you for fingerprinting."
Okay...
We step back out to the main room; there are several empty desks in the open space. He leads me past them to a processing room where he shuffles around, looking for the tools he needs. A real professional this guy. A knock at the door interrupts him just as he finds the ink pad.
The female officer who greeted us at reception speaks to him. "Ah," he says, turning to me. “Homeland Security is here for you, I think."
"You think it, do you?"
He smiles—all affable, friendly, tired fool. "Come." He waves me back into the mostly empty room.
Mulberry stands by the door, wearing a fedora pulled low and covered in droplets of water. The shoulders of his raincoat are darkened. A freaking fedora. Where is my apron when I need it? How will I be Mrs. Cleaver without it?
He looks up at our approach, his eyes peeking from beneath the rim of the hat, and looks at the detective. I don't say anything, just clench my fists, holding myself very still.
"Good evening," Mulberry says in his deep baritone. Once a cop, always a cop. "Thank you for bringing her in. I can take it from here.” He shows the man a badge and they shake hands like old friends. The detective must be one of ours.
The female officer blinks several times and goes to speak, but the detective silences her with a look. Mulberry steps forward and takes me by the bicep. "Good evening Ma’am," he says.
As we walk away, the female officer whispers madly to her superior.
Mulberry leads me back through reception, pulling a soaked umbrella from the stand and passing it to me.
"Thank you," I say.
He meets my eye for the first time. "You're welcome."
When he ope
ns the door, a gust of chilly, wet wind blows in, pulling at his hat but not unseating it. I step out into the night, opening the umbrella against the deluge, Blue close to my side, his nose tapping at my hip—I am here. You are not alone.
No, I'm not.
We drive in wet, dog-scented silence. The car is petite, making Mulberry look that much more like a hulking figure behind the wheel. Like a troll taking over an elf’s car.
I smile.
His eyes dart to me. "How are you?" he asks, his voice gruff.
"Tired."
"You led them on quite the chase."
"Don't worry, I didn't run that much. Thanks for coming to get me."
"Of course. I had planned to meet you in Paris."
"How have you been?" We'd texted over the last few months but not spoken. Mulberry had given me the space I asked for. What did he expect in return?
"We have a hotel suite reserved." He clears his throat. "There are two bedrooms."
I don't answer him, just look out the window. The landscape is cloaked in night and thick rain clouds. Fat drops of water slap the glass, then are swept back in what looks like a hostile dragging—as if the droplets don’t want to go but the wind and wiper blades are forcing them.
Mulberry exits the highway, pulling onto a roundabout. He changes gears, downshifting, the subtle movements sexy in their own special way. Blue sits up from where he's been laying in the back seat and puts his massive head between us to watch our passage through the narrow streets. His tongue lolls out. I reach out and scratch his chest. One of his back legs starts thumping in appreciation. A smile pulls at my mouth. He's so cute.
Mulberry parks in front of a small hotel, its lights a beacon in the rainy night. The lobby is small. The woman behind the desk coos over Blue and offers to bring up dog bowls and kibble for him. Mulberry orders some food for us too. I'm so tired I barely hear him.
When we get to the suite, I pause in the doorway. The living room is all plush purples and deep blues. The floor-to-ceiling doors leading to the narrow balcony are bracketed by shutters painted matte black. A small wood stove sits between the doors. In front of it, a silk carpet in dove and charcoal shimmers. The room is stylish and elegant, if a little worn around the edges.
There are bedrooms to the right and left. "I need a shower," I announce.
"I brought you some clothing," Mulberry says, his voice low. I turn back to him. He's taken off the coat and hat; his hair is flattened from wearing it so long. "Give me a minute and I'll get it out of my bag."
Mulberry runs a hand through his hair, standing it up on end as he moves toward the other bedroom, carrying his small suitcase. He comes back a minute later with a small satchel. I open it up and find a new T-shirt, a pair of leggings, and clean underwear.
"Thanks."
He shrugs.
My throat tightens when he raises his gaze to meet mine. "It's good to see you," he says, all quiet and sweet.
"You too."
He breaks into a smile that lights up his eyes and releases something in my chest.
I shower, and when I come back out to the living room in the big T-shirt and leggings, Mulberry is closing the stove door on a roaring fire. He turns to me, the pride of a fire well-built shining in his eyes.
He pushes up to stand and points to the table where two domed dishes wait. Blue is already eating out of a bowl on the floor.
"Thanks for feeding him," I say.
Mulberry shrugs as he makes his way over to the table. I realize how hungry I am when I sit down and Mulberry reveals my plate of pasta with red sauce. We eat in near silence, both of us ravenous.
When we're done, Mulberry gets up to tend his fire.
I move around the couch and join him on the rug in front of the stove. Blue follows but hops onto one of the couches. I let out a tired laugh. Mulberry looks over at Blue and smiles before settling on the rug, his gaze on the fire. Its crackling is the only sound for a long moment.
"I've never thought of you as just brave," Mulberry says, his voice low, big body still.
I let out a snort of a laugh, and Mulberry turns away from the fire, looking at me with those eyes of his—summer grass green with rays of yellow spanning out from the pupil, like the sun reflected in an algae-rich pond with a black hole at its center. Something eternal and universal and not at all real.
I look down at myself, unable to maintain eye contact. My shoulders are hunched forward; the T-shirt I'm wearing drapes like a smock.
"You are courageous more than brave," Mulberry says.
I blink and give my head a small shake—infinitesimal but necessary. "What?" I glance up at him.
Mulberry lowers his lashes, looking down at his hands, intertwined in front of his chest. His left elbow supports the weight of his upper body, and it arches to the floor, his legs relaxed and crossed. His remaining foot is inches from my knee. The prosthetic foot on the other leg extends neatly from his remaining calf… natural now. He's grown used to the loss.
So have I.
"The origin of the word courage is cor. The Latin word for heart. And the original meaning conveyed a person’s willingness to bare their whole heart." His eyes rise to meet mine once more, the depths sparkling. "That's why you'll be such a great mom. Because you'll show our child who you really are, a woman of courage."
My hands spread on the rug, running over the fine silk, the thick weave. I stare down at them. My hands. Out of all the parts of my body, I see them the most, but the changes in them seem to strike me at the oddest moments.
A flash of my hand wrapped around a silver pole on the New York City subway crosses my mind. I'd painted my nails burgundy, and I thought it looked so adult. My pale, unlined hand gripping that pole—my first moment as a free adult, paying my own rent, living my own life. The hands in front of me now, with their short, bare nails and scarred, wrinkled skin… they are as much me as those hands years ago were. The things right in front of us become invisible.
Rising onto my knees, I crawl toward the father of my child, waiting to lift my gaze until my hand brushes his knuckles, so we're close when our eyes meet again.
I don't know what to say. How do I respond to words so sweet, so fucking gentle and yet… tough? Words I can lean into when I need a strong wind at my back.
"Thank you."
He touches the tip of my hair, squeezing it between his thumb and forefinger, then wraps the strand around his finger and gives a gentle tug. An invitation and a request. An offer and a plea.
Be mine.
"You are enough, I know you always want to do more, be more. But,” he clears his throat. “You are enough.” It comes out rough—as rough as the stubble on his jaw, as the gravel-rutted road of our past. It comes out rough but perfect.
I follow the pull of him. Inhale his warm, heartening scent. Our lips meet, and we open to each other. The palm of his hand cups the back of my head, pulling me with him as he lies back onto the rug, pulling me into so much more than this one kiss. Pulling me into a promise I never thought I could make and now can't imagine living without.
I move with him like we are dancers, fighters, in sync and alive. Living in this moment alone, knowing that our fate lies in this breath, this heartbeat. All is now. Now is all. And yet in this impermanence is a promise… this moment won't last, but it will always be here. Waiting for us to claim it. To remember it. This can never be taken, given away, or destroyed. It is us. Us. One plus one makes more than two. It is infinite.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Dan
I turn my computer toward Consuela. "Look." I point to the Facebook profile up on my screen. "Billy Ray Titus." His profile picture shows him at a lectern, one hand in the air, his mouth open, as if he is making a rousing speech.
He'd look like a politician except for the lack of polish. His thinning, lanky hair is pulled into a ponytail. He wears a wrinkled button-down shirt over his narrow shoulders and round belly. Billy Ray Titus looks like a dweeb, but he is a dangerously e
ffective hate monger. Funny how looks can be so deceiving.
"I know who he is." Consuela circles the desk and leans next to me to get closer to the screen as I turn the laptop back toward me. "He downloaded your app?" She turns her face toward me but is careful to keep distance between us.
I look up at her and grin. "Not exactly."
Billy Ray Titus is smart enough not to take a personality quiz, sign a petition to remove women's right to vote, download a game where he goes on mass shootings, or any of the other traps I've laid for his followers. But he can't protect himself from data harvesting. Financial information from credit agencies, public records about homeownership and voter registration and many other bits of data that define us as individuals can all be bought and sold.
With me targeting so many of Billy Ray Titus's "friends," he was bound to churn up in the chum of Facebook profiles. And with enough data points, it is easy to deanonymize anyone. There are no laws in much of the world that protect an individual's data. No one needs to consent to being bought and sold on the web. My mind wanders to Lenox and his arm of Joyful Justice that fights with such vehemence to keep people's bodies from being traded in the same way I use data to target… to manipulate.
Consuela reaches out and scrolls down Billy Ray's profile. "He is one of the loudest voices, gets the highest speaking rates, and is definitely a big reason that so many men are moving from Men's Rights Activists into more extreme groups like incels. He's also suspected of trafficking in Isis war slaves," she says.
"Yes. All that." She looks over at me again as I tap his picture. "He is a big part of the problem. Anytime one of my persuadables stops commenting, begins to bow out, or even says anything more tempered, Billy Ray is all over it."
"I've suspected him of financing several attacks, including the attempted murder of April Madden."
He financed the attack on Sydney's mother.
"If he was out of the way, things would be simpler."
"I know," she sighs. "He's careful though. I've never found any hard evidence of criminality. But trust me, I'm still looking."
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