Chapter 37
Hours pass by. It has to be hours, because the only two things that have calmed me down are thinking about the firm I want to start and counting the seconds, and I’ve reached over eight thousand and that’s over two hours. That is, if I’ve been counting actual seconds.
I haven’t thought about Claire in so long that it feels fresh. Therapy—lots of therapy—helped me to stow those thoughts away for processing later because every time I thought about her as a child, I had intractable panic attacks. No meds touched them, so my therapist thought it best I lock the thoughts up for the time being.
Now, I can’t stop thinking about her. But it doesn’t have to be entirely for naught. Back then, it was a horror in the truest sense of the word. Still is. But if I can use that horror to bring some good into the world, then I will. I’ll help people who have been wronged.
Maybe I’ll track down Pippa and Wendy and make their lives a living hell while I’m at it. I’m sure I can dig into their family’s financials and find something wrong.
“Claire, I will make them pay. All of them.”
But to do that, I have to start with making Anderson pay. Oh, Anderson. God, could this be more complicated? Maybe I shouldn’t have told them about our relationship. Maybe I should have kept my mouth shut. I don’t know. It’s hard to know what the best?—
The rectangle of light says someone is opening the far door. A slim figure walks through it, and I’m not sure if it’s better that it’s the woman coming toward me right now, but it feels like it’s better. Silly, really. She could have a gun or a knife or something. She’s just as much of a threat as the big guy. But I still feel better that it’s her.
An overhead light comes on—one of those humming fluorescents. It takes a minute before my eyes clear up and when they do, the woman is untying me. It makes me want to celebrate, but that feels premature. She’s pretty, but plain. Brown hair, brown eyes, nothing remarkable about her at all. The perfect kidnapper.
And another face I’ve seen when I would prefer not to see them. One more person I can identify is one more reason for them to kill me.
When I’m untied, she says, “Follow me.” Then she turns on her heel and heads for the far door.
I stand up and almost lose my balance. Pins and needles in my calf. “Leg’s asleep. Just a moment.”
If she’s annoyed, she doesn’t show it. She merely stands near the door, waiting. I hobble toward her as best I can and by the time I reach her, I’m awkwardly walking like a newborn horse, but I can travel. She gives a curt nod, then opens the door.
We’re in a hallway. It’s rudimentary and a little bare. It reminds me of the time I had to go through a mall’s back halls because I got locked in after it closed and the security guard had to help me get out. But then we go through another door, and we’re in a lobby with a bank of elevators. There’s no outer door from the lobby, and no windows, either. But there are guards. Lots of armed guards. This place is a fortress.
Running is not an option. I want to ask a thousand questions, but I doubt she’d answer any of them, and I don’t want to annoy her. Nervously rambling won’t make things better.
Anyone who has a fortress in the middle of Boston—if we’re still in Boston—is dangerous. I shouldn’t have said shit about Anderson. Hell, I probably shouldn’t be involved with him, either. Not if being involved with him gets me here. This is about his family. Not me. I don’t have anything to do with anything this nefarious.
But I’m here and there’s nothing I can do to change that right now.
The woman waits as an elevator door opens, and she gestures for me to walk in.
Sure. Why not?
She steps in, too, and presses her finger to a fingerprint reader. There are no buttons in the elevator. Top-notch security here. Great. The elevator trip goes on for a long time, and when it opens, it opens directly into a penthouse.
The skyline is unfamiliar, and I’m not sure if that’s because it’s Boston from an angle I’ve never seen or if I’m not in Boston anymore. All of the décor is hyper-modern, but classy. Less Jetsons and more jet-set. I can’t take much of it in, because it seems we’re heading toward a man with his back to us, and I have a sneaking suspicion that he’s the one in charge, so my panic threatens to rise again. After all, the other interrogators came to see me, but I had to come to see him. It’s a negotiating tactic I studied, but I doubt there will be much negotiation today.
He stands by the window, overlooking the city like he owns it. For all I know, he does. A long table near the windows appears to be our destination. At least if I’m tied to a chair here, it’ll be more comfortable than that damned wooden chair downstairs. These are overstuffed leather numbers like in boardrooms. The woman gestures at the one at the end of the table away from the man, so I sit. Thankfully, she doesn’t tie me to it. In fact, there’s a glass of water there.
Progress?
The woman leaves us behind, vanishing back into the elevator. I’m not sure if I should speak first or let him do the talking. But he doesn’t. Not at first. Just as I draw a breath to say something, he says, “I’m sure you have many questions.”
“Good guess.”
His shoulders hop a little, like he’s chuckling. But I don’t hear anything out of him. Then he turns to face me, and I’m struck by him. He’s a good bit older than I’d expected after all of this. I’m not sure how old he would be, but he has to be in his fifties. White, with shining green eyes and a pleasant smile. His brown hair has gray sideburns, and he’s clean shaven. Handsome, classically so. He has a medium frame, and aside from the very expensive clothes, he looks painfully normal.
I’m a little disappointed. I’d thought for sure he’d be some Bond villain-type, with a strange facial scar and petting a white cat or something. Callie’s influence, I’m sure of it.
He sits at the other end of the long table. “Feel free to drink that. I’m sure you’re thirsty after your ordeal.”
I reach for it, but then stop. “How do I know it’s not poisoned?”
He laughs. “I suppose you don’t.” Suddenly, he gets up and comes toward me, and I brace for a smack for my insolence or something. But he takes a sip of the water instead. “Granted, you don’t know me, but I’m not in the habit of drinking poison.” Then he returns to his seat.
Ah, well. If they wanted me dead, I would be. The water tastes like the best thing ever and I’m tempted to drink it all down, but I pace myself in case this is all I get. “Thanks for that.”
“I am Andre Moeller. A friend of the West family.”
“Then they need better friends.”
He laughs again. “Truer words …”
“If you’re their friend, then why take Anderson’s fiancée hostage?”
Andre folds his hands on the table. “It is an unfortunate situation, but they owe me a debt. I need them to know I am serious about getting paid. You, my dear, are the bit of pressure I believe will inspire them to make good on said debt.”
I find myself envious of Andre. At least he could figure out a way to get paid by them. “What makes you think I’m that valuable to the Wests?”
“Look at you. How could you not be?”
“Okay, sure, flattery is nice and everything, but you had me kidnapped, so I’m not going to blush and say thanks.”
“You’re spirited. No wonder Anderson likes you.”
“Being nice after keeping me locked up in a basement for hours is not going to level the playing field between us, Mr. Moeller.”
He chuckles under his breath. “What makes you think we’re on a level playing field, Ms. Devlin?”
Oh. There’s the hint of a threat. To be honest, I’d expected worse. “Not a thing. But you’re being nice to me, and I assume there’s a reason for it.”
“Of course. No sense in making this more unpleasant than it needs to be, don’t you think?”
“Sure.” But I’m not letting my guard down for anything. “If this is a simple business matter, then why not use the courts to enforce it?”
He smirks. “Because neither myself nor the Wests want the law involved in our dispute. Trust me.”
Considering the circumstances, I did.