Chapter Thirteen
“Isla!” Holland squealed as she thundered down one of the long staircases. She launched herself at Isla as if she was five and not taller than Isla, younger, and full of more energy. Plus, she fenced, right? So the girl had power under her couture athleisure. She nearly knocked Isla over.
Isla froze, temporarily forgetting herself and nearly shoving the girl off in reflex. Isla wasn’t a hugger. Or much of a toucher. But she let Holland do just that, and she awkwardly wrapped her arms around the young Corrigan.
“Hey there, Holland,” she said hesitantly. She was muffled by Holland’s shoulder. She gave her three pats to signal time to tap out and get off. Holland didn’t seem to get the signal, so Isla gently wiggled some space for herself and pushed Holland off with as soft a touch as she could.
“You don’t know how glad I am that you’re here.” Holland’s words tumbled out in her usual rush, no different from the night before. “I didn’t even realize I lost my ID. I was so focused on not getting in trouble for the car and with getting a new phone.”
Holland had priorities, and losing something as important as her school ID and keys was apparently not one of them.
“I tried calling all day so I wouldn’t just pop up unannounced and uninvited,” Isla explained. “I’m sorry for the intrusion.”
“Oh geez, don’t apologize.” Holland rolled her eyes. “You just don’t understand how boring it can be here with all these adults. Everyone is always so uptight and serious looking. Like, drop a deuce and relax already.”
Isla coughed to mask her shock and amusement. She hadn’t thought prep school girls spoke like that, but she should have known better. What did Holland think Isla was? She reminded Holland that she was in fact an adult.
Holland giggled, covering her mouth with her hands. “Oh, I know you are. I mean the boring adults.”
Isla only responded with an unsure smile. Well, that was good, at least. She wasn’t boring.
Holland looped her arm through Isla’s like they’d known each other for years instead of less than a day, and the act was equal parts sad and guilt-ridden for Isla.
Not just because Isla wasn’t there to be friends, but also because Holland seemed desperate for a friend and Isla couldn’t be that, not under these pretenses.
With her free hand, Isla pulled out the lanyard with the keys and handed it over. Holland barely looked at it before tucking it in her jacket pocket.
“You’re not going to check that everything is there?” Isla asked, frowning, as she let herself be led away.
Holland was confused, her ponytail swinging. “For what?”
Isla left it alone. Maybe then the pang of remorse at her deceit toward someone who’d taken a liking to her would subside.
Isla used her awe as an excuse to stare and get the lay of the land.
She’d already started clocking valuable information about how everything ran.
How only the security guards and staff wore name tags, but the drivers, personal guards, and employees who worked with members of the house did not.
The staff member who’d let Isla in wore a navy blue uniform that looked freshly laundered and ironed, along with a black Apple Watch.
The driver who’d brought Isla to the house had worn one, and Taylor, Myles’s person from the night before, had worn one too.
This must be how they communicated around the estate.
An older, distinguished woman met them in the middle of the grand foyer. Isla stopped, staring at the floor. In the center of the foyer, beneath twelve large, thick square glass panels, was a scaled-down model of what had to be the expansive estate property.
The floor mosaic was a terrarium in the shape of the Corrigan property, covered in lush green sphagnum and vibrant plants, with ponds and streams. It was the breathtaking focal point of the home. Only when Holland giggled did Isla realize that she’d knelt down on the floor for a closer look.
Blushing, Isla quickly got to her feet, apologizing for her lack of decorum in front of this woman who wasn’t Holland’s mother. Isla knew well what Brooke Corrigan looked like.
“Don’t worry,” the woman said, “it happens to everyone. Even heads of state.” She radiated an air of authority that told Isla she was someone important—not family, because she was dressed in a long, dark conservative skirt with a cream-colored blouse, but not regular staff either.
The woman Isla guessed to be in her late fifties studied Isla with TSA-level scrutiny, not averting her gaze like the other employees who scurried about like they had to constantly be on the go. Isla pretended not to notice the curious peeks at the new friend that Holland had brought home.
“That’s Alice,” Holland said of the younger woman who’d let them in. “And this is Mae. She’s been working for my dad since before I was born. She’s the real boss of the estate, but don’t tell my mother.”
Mae offered a hand to Isla. “The official title is house manager,” she clarified. “I’ve heard plenty about you in the less than twenty-four hours this child has known you. You’re all she’s been able to talk about.”
Isla dismissed the praise, swallowing the prick of guilt.
When the truth came out, it was Holland Isla would feel most sorry toward.
The first part of their plan, the infiltration of the Corrigan home, had worked.
Now, Isla needed to make herself indispensable, figure out a reason to get them to allow her access to their home and them.
Holland dragged Isla through a maze of halls and rooms, naming the rooms as they passed: sitting rooms, plural; the kitchen the size of one in a hotel and just as equipped; the formal dining area large enough to seat twenty; an office—one of several, apparently—and on and on.
Isla wasn’t sure if she was in a family’s home or a stadium.
They used one of the back stairwells to the second floor, which deposited them at the end of a hall Holland announced was basically hers.
The first room they passed had a set of closed double doors that Holland said nothing about, instead pointing out the few guest rooms and common areas they passed after it.
Isla hadn’t noticed until they came across another room, its double doors identical to the ones at the end of the hall.
But one of its doors was open wide enough for Isla to glimpse that what Holland called a bedroom was more like a penthouse suite with plush pale-blue carpeting and white furniture.
The room was a sky with clouds, and Isla wondered what it was like growing up in a place as luxurious as this.
The first room had to be a bedroom, like this one, but Holland had said nothing about it.
As a matter of fact, Holland had pretended the room didn’t exist, rushing them past. Isla glanced back at the room at the end of the hall, preparing to ask who owned that room, but Holland was already nearing the front of the hall, unaware Isla had fallen behind. Isla rushed to catch up.
Up until then, Holland had happily played tour guide, answering every question Isla had, and Isla had committed everything to memory as best she could.
The home, of course, looked different from the blueprint Rey had been able to find in ways only he knew.
They stopped at the beginning of Holland’s hall.
There Isla saw how it was one hall of several, each expanding out from the circular center like spokes on a wheel.
“My brothers are down that hall. Mother usually takes up residence there. Dad over there,” Holland pointed out, leading them down one side toward the start of one of the main staircases. “They like their space.”
They were at the double staircases Isla had barely noticed when she’d entered because she’d been distracted by the mosaic down below.
She looked over the railing, taking the artwork in from above, appreciating it as it was supposed to be appreciated.
She reluctantly pulled herself away when they were at the landing in between the two staircases and came face-to-face with the largest family portrait she had ever seen.
For the second time, Isla stopped for a better look.
She backed up, amazed at the power a mere portrait could exude.
The Corrigans immortalized. Victor seated front and center, with his usual look of dominance and arrogance as he leaned forward just a little in his chair, one hand planted on a knee and the other at his hip, as if preparing to make a deal, the slightest squint of one of his dark eyes, arrogance and dominance emanating from just a picture.
Directly behind him stood his wife, Brooke.
She had one hand placed on his shoulder and wore an assured smile like she knew all this was hers.
Her elegant features were more pronounced with her poised demeanor, and the deep red of her lipstick exuded confidence and fight.
She was adorned in diamonds. To her left and somewhat apart was the brother Isla had met the night before.
He looked the same, detached and mildly hostile even in the portrait.
His sharp, deep-brown eyes were observant and unreadable, just as they’d been the other night.
His body language was odd, as he was facing the family but at a distance from them too.
Isla bit her bottom lip, wondering what this family portrait was telling her about the relationships of its members.
On the other side of Brooke, the only Corrigan daughter stood close to her mother.
Holland was a perfect blend of both of her parents.
She was what Brooke and Victor would look like if they ever smiled like they meant it.
Holland had already surpassed Brooke in height.
Her hair was down to her shoulders, and she was the only one to look like she was trying to either scare or impress or inspire awe in whoever was looking at them.
Last, Bennett stood right behind Holland, his runway-model features haughty and mischievous.
He was certainly gorgeous, favoring his mother more than his father.
Isla would have thought him an angel, but his arrogant smirk killed all that.
Isla had seen this portrait before in a past magazine spread about Brooke and her love of the exotic plants in her well-maintained greenhouse on the premises and her dedication to the Bennett & Corrigan Foundation, the philanthropic arm of the Corrigan Group.
“It’s something, huh?” Holland asked, appearing beside Isla. “It was not fun posing for that. I think only my mother and brother enjoyed it.”
“Myles?”
Holland snorted. “Hell no, Bennett. He likes the limelight.”
“How old were you?”
Holland shrugged, thinking. “I think it was maybe nearly two years ago? I was turning sixteen.”
That checked out. The magazine spread had come out late the previous year.
“It took my mother forever to get Dad to agree to it.”
Isla finally tore her eyes away, refocusing on her surroundings and the way she also felt on top of the world from her perch at the top of the stairs, overlooking everything else.
She laid her hands on the top of the banister, leaning over it to peer down before her.
So this was what a little bit of power felt like.
“Why wouldn’t he?”
Holland didn’t answer, shrugging instead, and stepped away quickly. Isla noted Holland’s sudden attitude shift. She was closing herself off. Seemed there were some things Holland wasn’t willing to open up to her new bestie about.
“Come on,” Holland said suddenly, her voice going higher and her spirits brightening back up. “Let’s go.” Isla was nearly pulled off her feet as Holland snatched her hand and pulled her away.
“Dad!”
Isla nearly suffered whiplash from jumping from the house tour to meeting the man himself.
He was more imposing in person than on TV and in the photos.
He was in deep conversation with another man, and the two of them stopped when interrupted.
Holland introduced Isla to Victor Corrigan and Brian Dixon, his right-hand man and manager of operations.
All the months of preparation and waiting for the right moment had come to this.
It would be her only shot. Her make or break, and she would have no other opportunity to make a lasting impression, good enough to get in, than this moment.
A flash caught Isla’s eyes when Dixon buttoned his suit jacket as he was acknowledging her.
Victor’s right-hand man was carrying, making Isla wonder what Victor Corrigan could be into that made his seemingly mild-mannered employee who gave off accountant vibes carry a concealed weapon. Even in the Corrigan home.