Chapter 33
Clara
I’ve never been much of a holiday person, but Thanksgiving is officially my favorite, mainly because Trevor stays at Olivia’s for most of the week.
That man brings out murderous tendencies I didn’t know I had.
I’m equally disgusted and impressed with myself: horrified that I took his fingers, even as I know it was justified.
He was ready to rape me all those months ago on the boat.
Last night, he would have killed me if no one there had intervened.
I fought back, meeting violence with violence, and it’s as scary as it is exhilarating.
Unfortunately, Mattie’s avoiding Trips and me now. It’s pretty obvious that we scared her. And even if she was told what had gone down in the pool that night, it doesn’t look good when the only people she assumed were safe show themselves to be the violent criminals her father told her we were.
One ally lost. Or at least, confused.
I can’t say I blame her.
If I’d come into a room a year ago and seen what she saw, I wouldn’t have trusted anyone in that situation again. Add to that they’re her brothers, one of whom she’s been told from birth is dangerous and unhinged?
And his supposedly equally unhinged fiancée, who you’ve already seen shoot a man, is cutting people and covered in blood? Yeah.
I’m giving her whatever space she feels she needs. Even if I miss our sporadic chats.
Trips’ dad has said nothing about what went down at the pool. He didn’t lock Trips or me up, so I guess everything that happened got put under the umbrella of self-defense. But every guard in a sling, cast, or walking boot I come across is an obvious reminder of how violent that night became.
One guard had our backs, though. Even after the chaos.
I found our coats laid across my bed when I came back from breakfast the next morning, the stiff weight of them telling me the papers were still stitched in there.
After I hung them in the closet, I’d spent the next two days trying to figure out how to get the art somewhere that would implicate Trips’ father in forgery.
It’s not a lie. It’s an exaggeration of the truth.
There was the button camera tucked into my seam to worry about as well.
After a few days of mulling it over, I have a hazy plan. It’s not my best. And when I whisper it to Trips late that night, after we’d done exactly what was required of us, his heart thundering under my fingers, he’s about as pleased with it as I thought he would be.
But he doesn’t have any better ideas.
And when I lay it out to Falk on our run the next day, he’s just as incredulous.
“You know there are cameras in there.”
“Do you know where they are?” I ask, my breath a white cloud that scatters as I run through it.
He jogs for a bit, the snow slushy underfoot. “Yeah. It’s pretty easy to tell where they’re placed from the control room. And I still have access to that room. I haven’t fucked up that badly. Not yet, at least.”
“Can you stand in their way? You’ve got Trips to use as a block as well.”
We’re most of the way done with our circuit before he answers. “Yeah. We can make this work. But if you fuck this up, we’re all going down. Whatever plan you have, it dies if this doesn’t go right.”
“Trust me, I know.”
On Wednesday, armed in the most casual clothes I have under my thick wool coat, Trips dressed the same, we make our way to the office.
His father just got home from work, and if he follows his usual schedule, he’ll be changing into his ‘home clothes’ before working on briefs in his office while staring longingly at a glass of scotch.
Falk calls for back-up as I break into the office, picking the lock fast enough to mistake for having a key. Falk’s angry tones chase us into the space, and he pushes Trips, his frustration sounding real enough to my ears as Trips stands there like he owns the room and everything in it.
Falk then paces a few feet away from Trips, chewing us out for going wherever we want without concern.
Meanwhile, I tuck myself behind the heavy wooden desk, the ream of paper pressed against my stomach.
I’d freed them from the lining while I was deep in the recesses of the closet, pretending to struggle picking out my clothes for the day.
I made a sling from a fancy silk scarf I have no plan of ever wearing and tucked the art in that, my coat covering up the whole mess.
Unbuttoning quickly, I pull them out, taking barely a moment to admire the amazing work Walker did, missing him so strongly my breath catches, before tucking them under the pile of old photo albums I saw when Trips’ father slammed my head into the desk.
It’s the only section of the room that isn’t immaculately straightened, and the only place I can leave the papers where they won’t look out of place.
Once again, it’s not perfect, but it’s the best I’ve got with all the restrictions we have on us.
I take two more steps and wedge the camera on a belly-height shelf between a heavy law tome and the wall of the bookcase, hoping it’s lined up right, but having no way to check.
Last, I grab one of the fancy red pens on the desk that Trips promises are special order, jamming it into my pocket.
Heavy feet stride down the hallway, and thinking quickly, I snatch up the top album, leaning against the desk with it open on my lap, my heart pounding loudly even though I’ve hardly moved.
Trips’ father slams into the room, and because I want to look unbothered, like someone who’s happy pushing his buttons instead of terrified, I stare at the random page that’s open before me.
The photo is of a woman with an athletic build, a baby strapped to her chest as she laughs. The shot is blurry, and taken from below, but I immediately know two things about this photo.
The first is that the face is one I’ve seen before, swathed in curling smoke, inked permanently above Trips’ heart. It’s a photo of his mother, and the tiny blob of a baby is him. Cared for. Loved. Surrounded by joy.
If that weren’t enough to break my heart, the angle and blurriness are familiar from the many times I’ve lent my phone to a kid I nannied. A child took this photo. Trevor took this photo.
At one point, that monster was a part of this picture, capturing joy and hope and love with the sincerity of a child.
A third thing dawns on me as Trips’ dad whispers angry words at the guard I now know has our backs, a scant few feet between them.
This album is within reach of the desk, messy, the pages worn from being fingered through.
And only one person has constant access to this album—Trips’ father.
“I want to visit my parents,” I announce, slowly closing the album, unwilling to ponder the unexpected sincerity the album hints at.
Trips’ father spins to face me, holding out his palm for the album. It feels like I’m drowning yet again as I hand it over, the way he tosses it on his desk like it doesn’t matter conflicting with the small stroke he couldn’t resist along the spine before he threw it. “And why should I allow that?”
“Because they’re family. My family. And you value family.”
His blue eyes look faded tonight as he inspects me. “This required breaking into my office?”
I shrug. “I was bored; I can’t let my skills get rusty.”
“Petty crime? Why am I not surprised, considering where you grew up?”
Yikes. Sure, my neighborhood wasn’t the best, but it’s not like everybody who grew up there turned into criminals. Although as I’m a criminal now, I guess I don’t have much ground to stand on.
I let him have his sally and wait, suddenly hoping that I’ll actually get to see my dad.
“You found them?” he asks, because of course the wedding planner told him about the returned invitation.
“After you lost them? Yes, I did.” Holding up my new, monitored cell phone, I wave it around.
RJ was happy to send the address, assuming there was a reason I was asking for it.
After my request for a new liver, I’ve mostly been using the phone to tell my guys how much I love them, with a bit of sexting mixed in.
Whoever is monitoring the device is getting a whole lot of dirt on me, but it probably isn’t the dirt they were hoping for.
The man who holds my fate strides around his desk, the beeps of his safe loud.
When he pulls out a manila folder with my name on it, I suppress a shiver and step away from the desk, letting Trips pull my back to his front.
A photo from last winter, the one of Trips and me in that alley, is visible as he slides loose the battered invitation.
He tosses it across the desk, leaving the folder open. “Make sure they get this.”
“Of course. My dad can’t walk me down the aisle if he doesn’t know I’m getting married.”
He scoffs. “Be back before ten. I’ll be watching your progress, so no side adventures,” he says, pulling out his glasses and settling them onto his nose, before pouring himself his untouchable vice.
Trips and I head to the door, Falk following us.
“And Ms. McElroy?” the manipulator calls, not content without a parting remark.
I pause, not turning, not saying anything. He has nothing on his desk to throw at me besides his pens and his scotch, so I should be safe. Trips turns, just in case, though.
“Never break into my office again. Once is cute. If you do it a second time, it’s your final strike.”