Chapter 29
29
SAMANTHA
I take the guards at the gate by surprise; they’re not expecting anyone to come in or out this late at night. Of course, one of them reaches out to Braiden to find out if he should let me go. Braiden is king of this rotten land. His word is law.
I half expect him to deny me the right to leave. After all, that’s the sort of control he craves. But the guard nods as he pockets his phone, and he snaps a command to the other men. The machine guns look like parade flags as I pass through to the street.
Unfortunately, both paparazzi and protesters were warned by my headlights. Their ranks have thinned; most seem to have homes to return to, warm beds to sleep in. But the ones that remains are even more aggressive than usual, spurred on by the prize of my late-night exit.
I want to roll down my window and scream at them, make them understand how they’re ruining my life. But I know that won’t work, any more than flashing both middle fingers will make them back off.
I grip the wheel and stare straight ahead until I’ve cleared the pack. That same semblance of control gets me down the street, around the corner, and all the way to the interstate.
I’ve driven hundreds of miles today, from Philadelphia to Boston and back again. The last thing I want is to spend more time in the car.
But the decision’s been taken out of my hands.
Braiden is under orders to kill me.
He won’t do it. I know that. If he meant to execute me, he would have fired the instant I stepped through the pool house door. One shot through the head or the heart, and he’d be done. Clean up would be easy enough—just order one of the enforcers at the gate to take care of my body. I’d end up in a shallow grave somewhere in the woods of western Pennsylvania, or at the bottom of the Schuylkill, or miles off-shore in the Atlantic Ocean.
Braiden’s already decided to disobey Ingram’s order. But that doesn’t mean I’m safe. All it would take is one hothead hoping to impress his boss—one of Braiden’s soldiers trying to ease his captain’s burden, one of Ingram’s runners trying to move up…
Better for me to get out of Philadelphia. To get somewhere safe.
By reflex, I’m on the road to Dover.
I can’t beg a cottage at the freeport, not this time. Sure, Trap Prince is a friend. Alix, even more. But they’re my employers. My career is on shaky enough footing, with my law license near suspension. I can’t run back to them for shelter even though—especially because—they gave it to me last time.
Last time.
How have I let my life get to this point? Where I’m running for the second time from the man I thought I loved ?
Braiden has changed me. He’s turned me into a woman I no longer recognize.
I don’t recognize the woman who just screamed like a fishwife, digging for the sharpest words, going for the deepest cut.
I don’t recognize the woman who drove all the way to Boston on a whim, who confronted a mob boss—a mob boss!—because she had a dispute with his daughter.
I don’t recognize the woman who craves submission, the woman who chooses to wear a collar, the woman who interrupted her husband’s business meeting so she could give him the crudest sort of lap dance.
I let Braiden sell my condo. I let Birte sit at our table. I let Fiona live in our house. I did it all, but I can no longer explain how or why or what hold Braiden has over me.
That’s why I need to drive to Dover. That’s why I need to return to the freeport, to my career, to the very core of who and what I am—in hopes that I’m not too late. That I’m not lost forever.
At two in the morning, I arrive at one of the executive hotels just a few miles from my office. I startle a sleepy desk clerk, who taps on her computer keyboard long enough to book me into a room. I pay for two nights up front, putting the charge on my credit card.
I’m too wired to sleep.
I force myself to lie on the bed for a couple of hours, staring at the ceiling. I order myself not to replay the vicious things Braiden and I said to each other. When the sky starts to turn gray outside my room, I realize I never even pulled the curtains.
I take a shower in the neutral-tone bathroom, standing under a scalding spray until my skin aches. I dry myself with rough white towels. I apply makeup from the touch-up bag in my briefcase—eyeliner, mascara, stark burgundy lips. I gulp two cups of horrible coffee from the single-serve machine on the dresser, and then I’m back in my car.
My first stop is the gun shop on Dupont Highway. Just north of the Air Force base, it boasts a wide range of weapons. I’m the easiest sale of the day; I know I want a Glock nine millimeter, just like the one I used to own. Before Braiden.
The yawning man behind the counter runs a background check. I half-expect him to react when I hand over my ID, spelling out the name that’s been splashed across the front pages of newspapers for weeks. But apparently the owner of Dover Armory isn’t up on current events. And I haven’t yet been convicted of a felony.
It’s only a matter of minutes before I leave with a pistol, an extra magazine, and two boxes of ammunition. I feel a lot safer with them in my briefcase as I head into the office.
Freeport security is a lot like the system at Thornfield, but I try not to think about that. My office setup with its executive chair and dual monitors resembles my workspace at Thornfield, but I ignore that too.
My office has a closet, intended to hold a couple of coats, maybe an umbrella or two. It’s crowded with the clothes I bought the last time I fled Braiden. Everything was moved here from Goldenrod Cottage when I foolishly went back to Thornfield.
I change out of yesterday’s suit, making a mental note to take it to the dry cleaner. With fresh clothes, I’m ready to tackle all the work I ignored yesterday.
I start with email. There’s a message from Sonja Heller, uncharacteristically subdued. The ethics board has set a hearing date—June 4. We have five weeks to pull together all our evidence, every possible argument that I should be allowed to continue my career.
I make a note on my calendar with mechanical precision, and then I dig into the rest of the emails. Teddy Newland sent a bill, without a cover letter or comment. Connor Boyle wants to schedule a meeting about charitable donations. Cole Wolf asks for a formal legal opinion about the tax implications of loaning a Monet to a university in Lithuania .
Phone messages are next. There are dozens from Braiden. I delete them unheard.
I turn to texts from various colleagues at the freeport. I answer questions about statutes, about regulations, about government initiatives and international organizations.
I work through breakfast. I work through lunch. Trap comes in mid-afternoon, with an emergency inquiry about Swiss banking law. Alix stops by, but I tell her I don’t have time to chat. I work through dinner. Mary stays late, without my asking her to change her plans.
Once, I stand too quickly to cross the office for a file, and I sway on my feet, absurdly light-headed. But I touch my fingers to my desk and take a few deep breaths, and then I’m back to normal.
Normal. I’ve missed it.
This is what I’m supposed to be doing. This is who I am. A few more days, a few more nights, and I won’t even think about the unrecognizable woman I left behind in Philadelphia.