33. Cora #2
Sure enough, there’s a false bottom, and in it hides a single heavy-duty key. I feel the corners of my lips twitch upward. That’s my Brady. I pocket the key in case it helps with my snooping, then I return everything in the drawer to where it was.
I find nothing else of interest in his bedroom, or kitchen, or gym.
His office is locked. I try using the key I found, but it gets jammed halfway in.
It takes me five minutes and lots of swearing to jiggle it loose, and when I finally yank it free, I accidentally scratch the metal beside the keyhole.
I swear to myself again, but it’s only noticeable if you look closely.
Resigned, I slip the heavy-duty key back into my pants pocket. Though I search the rest of the penthouse, the only other key I find is a BMW fob on a hook in the front closet. Brady must have his chandelier of brass keys with him, wherever the hell he is.
I hope he’s safe. It’s the faintest whisper from the tiniest corner of my mind, but I feel the sentiment with my entire being.
I love you, Cora.
Fuck. I pick up the red dress from the floor of his bedroom, then bring it back to my room to hang it up. But when I pull out one of his hotel’s wooden hangers, I pause. I take off the clothes I’m wearing, shimmy into the red dress, and examine myself in my room’s full-length mirror.
He bought it for me because it’s bright, noticeable enough to catch Noah’s attention through a restaurant window. He made me wear it as a manipulation. Then I cut off its long skirt as a manipulation. All we are is mind games and sex and violence and—
I love you, Cora.
I own you.
But he knows he doesn’t own me. He knows I’d never fucking let him.
Day turns to night without my realizing it. In the living room, I stare out at the twinkling lights of the city, wondering where he is, if he’ll ever come back.
I refuse to stay here forever, just waiting for him.
I could call him, but he wants me to hate him right now.
I pace the length of the window wall, swishing my shortened skirt every time I turn.
I want to get out and do something. Something useful, and preferably something that’s also an outlet for violence.
But given the hundreds and hundreds of stairs between me and ground level, I’ll need to plan every detail in advance.
The way Brady does.
We make a good team, he and I. Whether it’s working together at the pub, or in his office as we piece together intel and maps.
I stop so suddenly my bare feet skid on the marble floor.
Seven’s warehouse in West Park. A slow smile spreads across my face.
I’ll follow up on my intel and infiltrate Seven’s warehouse myself.
Not because he’s the O’Sullivans’ enemy, but because he’s mine.
He sent a man to jump me from the alleyway outside my home.
Seven Vanleusen is Cora’s enemy.
I am Cora with no true last name, existing in the liminal space between Muloney and O’Sullivan.
I never wanted to be a Muloney. But as much as I loathed my father, he’s the one responsible for this viciousness inside me, the recently unleashed part of myself that I’ve missed so much.
I never wanted to be an O’Sullivan, either.
Someone pounds on the heavy metal door.
I jump, whirling toward the noise, the locked access to the back stairs.
As the harsh knocking continues, I sprint to get my switchblade, bare feet slapping on the cold marble.
Opened knife in hand, I keep my muscles tense, my violence ready as I make my way toward the door.
It’s shaking in its frame from all the pounding.
Whoever’s on the other side is furious.
“Who is it?” I call, my voice firm.
“It’s Liam.”
“Fucking open up!” Finn must be with him.
I retract the switchblade, but I keep it in my hand as I open the door.
“Where is he?” Liam asks. His usually smoothed hair is in disarray, and the urgency in his voice puts me on edge.
“I don’t know.”
“Liar,” Finn spits, and I glare at him.
“Call me whatever you want. I don’t know where Brady is.”
“You have a fight or something?” Finn asks, his derisive sneer a crooked version of his brother’s. “I bet you did. I bet that’s why he froze the fucking elevator.”
I have to stop myself from looking too smug, because my theory was right.
“Do you have any idea where he might’ve gone?” Liam asks, the coolheaded commander.
Wherever Brady is, he’s got it planned out, which means if he doesn’t want to be found, he’s accounted for that too. I make a mental note to keep myself untraceable when I go to Seven’s warehouse later.
Shit. I almost say it out loud. My stomach cartwheels, because I know exactly where Brady is.
“No,” I lie to his brothers. “I have no goddamn idea where he is.”
Liam purses his lips, watching me intently, so I sigh as I pretend to think. I need him and Finn to go somewhere else, anywhere else.
“The man who attacked me,” I say. “Were you stupid enough to leave him alive?”
Both brothers seem taken aback by this, but Liam recovers faster.
“He’s dead.”
“Were you stupid enough to leave his family alive?” I ask.
Liam and Finn look at each other, then rush back down the stairs, the heavy door slamming behind them.
I don’t hesitate. I don’t even bother changing out of my ridiculous red dress. I sprint to the closet, shove my feet into a pair of flats, and grab Brady’s car keys.
When I fly into the back stairwell, another door slams a few stories below me. Liam and Finn must be crossing through one of the floors with civilian apartments, headed for a different exit.
Works well for me. I’ll take the exit without any O’Sullivan sons or guards in my way.
I smooth down my dress, grip the keys tight, and slide down the banister.