Chapter Five
T he next day, I wake up strangely determined. Maybe it’s just having eaten an actual meal for the first time in a long while. Maybe it’s getting a decent night’s sleep, or maybe it’s the knowledge that Uncle John is finally, finally going to face some kind of consequence. Whatever it is, I’m energized. The grandfather clock is chiming 9:15 when I finally get out of bed. I pick an outfit from my new wardrobe—a petal-colored polo shirt and some navy shorts—and slink down to the kitchen.
I’m going to ask Guy if I can use his computer. I’ve decided I have plenty of good reasons to, and if he really does want to help me, then he won’t find it suspicious. But when I arrive at the kitchen, I don’t find Guy—only Rosa, standing at the stove and stirring something. She jumps.
“Oh!” she says. “Miss, I didn’t think you’d be awake yet.”
Not an unreasonable guess, I think. “I’m sorry,” I say. “I didn’t mean to startle you. I was just—”
“Your breakfast isn’t ready,” she hurries on, ducking her head, almost wincing, as if she’s thinking I’m going to hit her.
“Oh,” I say again. “No, that’s fine. I’m not even that hungry.” Hearing that, she looks crestfallen. “I mean, I’m sure it’s delicious. I can’t wait.”
I look around. The kitchen is otherwise empty and absolutely spotless; not even so much as an empty green smoothie glass.
“Is Guy here?”
“Mr. Guy went into work early this morning,” she says. “Lots to work on for the case, he said.”
“Makes sense. He works a lot, huh?” I ask.
Rosa tips her head from side to side in a non-committal gesture. She’s not giving me much, but I guess I can’t blame her for being guarded.
“Here,” she says, gesturing at the table. “You sit.”
I do sit and wait as she brings me another bowl of my healthy whole grain cereal and, at least, thank God, a cup of coffee.
“Thank you,” I say. Maybe I can ask her... “Do you think—” I start, but Rosa glances at me with wide eyes that seem to suggest I shouldn’t even—
“Mr. Guy says you are welcome to roam around the house and enjoy whatever you need,” she says, indicating a note written on the counter.
“Oh,” I say and take a sip of the juice. “Thank you.”
Maren , it reads, I’m terribly sorry to miss you this morning; duty calls again. Please avail yourself of anything you need in the house. Rosa can assist if there’s something you need to get from outside. The entire facility is yours to use as you please—excluding my office, for obvious reasons, but beyond that, mi casa es su casa. I’ll see you this evening for dinner. I’ll try not to work too late. Fondly, Guy.
I scowl in spite of myself as I read the note. Of course, I understand that there’s probably privileged information in there, but I don’t have a phone, and a computer is what I’m going to need to figure out any next steps.
“Miss, if you don’t mind,” Rosa glances nervously at the hall, “I have a lot of cleaning to do, and—”
“Oh, no, no,” I say hurriedly. “Go ahead. I’ll let you know if I need anything, but I’m sure I’ll be fine.”
She ducks her head and disappears.
As soon as she’s out of sight, I decide I’m going to have to do a little light breaking and entering. But it’s not like Guy didn’t do the same thing when he sent his goons down to Uncle John’s garage. Sure, he might have been trying to help me—or so he claims. But that doesn’t change the fact that it was a crime, and anyway, I’m not here to do anything illegal. I literally just want what’s mine.
His office is on the first floor at the end of a long hallway from the front foyer. The door is thick, heavy, and locked with a keypad, no less. I don’t even bother trying the thumbprint scanner, because that’ll be a no-go. Instead, I try to think of the most obvious combination that Guy would use.
Two problems with that, I think, staring at the lock. First of all, I don’t really know what combination of numbers would mean anything to him. And second of all, what if he has some kind of log that sees who came in and out? He would know that he didn’t unlock his office.
So that’d be an obvious problem.
But then, what if...
On a whim, I punch in R-O-S-A and the pound key, and it unlocks. That was almost too easy. I feel bad for using Rosa’s login, but I’m sure she does actually come in here to vacuum or whatever—not the sort of thing that would necessarily draw suspicion.
Inside, it’s beautifully appointed, like a lawyer’s office in a TV ad where he’d sit at the thick mahogany desk and promise to get the money you’re owed for your personal injury lawsuit. The bookcases are tall, the windows are wide and framed with heavy blood-red drapes, and the walls are decorated only with diplomas. Well, aren’t you fancy? I think. Fortunately, there’s also a laptop computer sitting on the desk. I scramble to it and tap the keyboard to wake it up.
Of course, it’s password protected too. Duh, I think. I really didn’t think too much of this through, and now I’m wasting all this time not getting the information I need.
Password , I think. Password. What would Guy pick?
I try a few combinations of his name and random easy ones like Enter123 and password, but his InfoSec is a little stronger than that. Shit , I think, chewing my lip. I sit back in the heavy leather office chair and try to think. As I do, my eyes drift to the wall and the diplomas.
That’s something he’d always want to remember, I reason. What the hell? I punch it in: UVA2015.
The screen flashes and shakes its head at me, but this time I get a hint: Remember, passwords must contain a special character , it reminds me.
Okay, have it your way . UVA2015!
The screen blinks and unlocks.
Open sesame. I’m in. I can’t resist smiling a little, feeling like a master hacker, even though what I did was more a result of Guy picking something obvious than me being an expert with computers. But I don’t have much time. I call up the browser and try to think where to start. Google searches flash through my head: How to recover my inheritance, how to get into a bank account I own but don’t know where it is, how to get an ID card .
That one seems the most obvious, so I pull up the Virginia DMV.
Obviously, I’m not going to try to pass a driver’s test just now. I could pass, I think, if you put me behind the wheel, but who knows where my medical history is right now? I really just need anything that proves I am who I say I am...and it looks like a non-driver’s license photo ID is going to require a certified copy of my birth certificate, which I don’t know if I could find, even if one exists out there. If Uncle John ever had it, he probably used it to wipe barbecue sauce off his mouth years ago.
Behind me, on the bookshelf, a mantel clock ticks obnoxiously loud. I don’t have a ton of time, so I bookmark that information and try to move on to something new. I’m sink into the chair, trying to remember which bank Daddy used —because that’s the sort of thing a twelve-year-old would have paid attention to—when an email flashes at the bottom of the screen.
Re: Document Request (Attached)
I don’t mean to read Guy’s email, but it is right there ...so I click it.
Mr. Gisbourne,
Found the records for the Sanders case you need. Defendant seems to be lying about their residency. Attached Social Security claims are likely fabricated given DOB. LMK if you need more info.
Dawn .
As soon as I read the email, I set it to unread, heart thrumming.
My mind is going a thousand miles a minute. Guy is an assistant district attorney. He can get any documents he needs because that’s part of his job . If he asked for them, and I managed to get a copy in my hands...well, it wouldn’t technically be legal, except for the part where I am owed all these things that are mine in the end, and I’m just using a roundabout way to get them.
I do a quick moral inventory before I decide. I’m breaking the law in the name of the greater good...but not the same way the four shifters claimed they were. That was something else entirely. I’m not taking something that isn’t mine, even if I think someone has a better claim to it or deserves it more. I’m literally just catching up from where I should have been my whole life. That means I’m still not like them.
Right?
I don’t have time to perseverate much more. On the right column of the screen is Guy’s calendar. He’s in a meeting right now, apparently. Perfect. I look at the email once more, copy the reply-to address, and paste it into a new window.
Dawn , I type, Thanks for your assistance with the Sanders case. I have a few new documents I need regarding the charges against John Lackland. Can you pull a copy of a birth certificate for one Maren de Mornay? Prefer a certified copy as quickly as you can. Thank you. Regards, Guy.
I scan the email text one last time, then delete the “thank you.” For whatever reason, that sounds a little too far like something he wouldn’t say.
With a few clicks, I figure out how to set up a filter on this thread: no notifications when or if Dawn replies, and any replies will go straight to his archive. I’ll just have to keep tabs on this...somehow...and figure out where the certificate will end up. But still, it feels like a victory, it feels like.
Clearing my throat, I hit send and right-click on the conversation thread. Voila .
As the email whooshes to send, I look to the rest of the desktop, on the off chance that there’s anything else useful for me here, and one folder happens to catch my eye: Gisbourne Campaign Files.
Okay, so maybe I’m a nosy bitch, but I can’t help it. I still don’t feel like I know too much about who this dude is. I don’t want to dis trust him, because that would make me a grade-A dumbass for accepting anything from him, but I’m also not sure I can trust him.
So the more I learn about him, the better.
I double-click the folder and open it up. Inside are a bunch of documents, headshots, flyers, and a couple of drafts of what appear to be speeches. Curious, I click one open and skim it. It’s a whole lot about defending the law, serving the public, taking on the mantle of responsibility for Sherwood, blah, blah, blah—the kind of thing you’d say at a campaign stop for a stump speech.
Which, now that I think about it...
I click back to some of the graphics. Vote Gisbourne. Support Guy. I want to earn your vote .
So he’s a politician , I think, an instinctive coil of distrust tightening in my stomach. Well, that figures. Browsing a little more, I put the pieces together: he’s running for District Attorney—the head of the office. The chief prosecutor for all of Sherwood. Guy’s current boss. Apparently the sitting DA is about a thousand years old and retiring, but hasn’t announced it yet, and Guy’s eager to fill his shoes.
Well, that pretty much figures. He doesn’t strike me as the type who’d be happy being assistant anything for too long. And I have to admit, looking at all the photos of him in the traditional politician’s blue button-down with rolled-up sleeves to the elbow, he does look the part. Maybe he needs a touch more gray around the temples, that plus a beautiful wife, 2.5 kids, and a Golden Retriever. But I guess he has to start somewhere. My eyes drift to a file titled DRAFT BIO, and I click it open eagerly.
Guy is a native son of Sherwood County, Virginia , it begins.
I roll my eyes. Oh, brother. I’m a native daughter, but you don’t hear me bragging about it. Then again, I guess if you want to win these people’s votes, you’ve got to appeal to their sense of local pride.
For whatever reason, that makes me think of what Rob said weeks ago, how people in Sherwood were too proud just to take handouts. Does Guy understand that? Does he want to help them, too? I guess with the right people in office, it would be possible. But the right people haven’t held office around here since before I can remember; it’s always been the sheriff and his crew.
I swallow and keep reading. St. Michael’s Prep, Georgetown, UVA. Hobbies: golfing, sailing, hunting. Believes in the practice of law, in the pursuit of justice, not for personal gain. Well, that’s a nice change , I think.
Guy is proud to live just outside of his hometown of Nottingham with his fiancée .
A shiver cuts through me at that last sentence.
Disappointment? God, no, that can’t be it.
Surprise, certainly.
Because if he has a fiancée...where is she?
Another shiver, this one colder.
I’d asked point-blank why he wasn’t married, and he basically dodged the question.
Maybe his fiancée’s the jealous type, wouldn’t like another woman in the house.
Maybe she’s just...out of town.
Maybe she’s—
The doorknob swivels, and the lock beeps.
“Shit, fuck,” I whisper. I jump up from the desk, wondering how quickly I can duck underneath it and if that’s even a good hiding place. But before I can, Rosa glides in the door, a vacuum cleaner trailing after her, and I freeze. She doesn’t see me at first. She’s wearing headphones, I realize, but it only takes a moment for her to look up and see me at the desk. Her mouth flies open.
“Wait,” I say, getting to my feet. “I can explain.”
Rosa’s chin quivers. “This is Mr. Guy’s office,” she says. “He said you’re not supposed to be in here.”
“I know, but I—” I can’t come up with a lie quick enough, and I still feel like the truth is justified, so I go for it. “I just needed some documents,” I say. “I can’t leave here without them, because no one will know who I am or believe me. I’m not stealing or doing anything wrong. I promise. I promise. I wasn’t doing anything else.”
Rosa pauses.
“Documents?” she echoes.
“Yes,” I say, nodding eagerly. “My birth certificate. Things like that. I’m just trying to start my life over, that’s all. Really, that’s all.”
The fear in Rosa’s eyes softens to recognition, and something like sadness.
“I know,” she says. “I understand.”
I swallow hard. Decide to press my luck and ask point-blank.
“You won’t tell Guy?”
She shakes her head softly. “I see nothing. I am just in here vacuuming.” She shrugs, a wry little smile twisting her lips, and I smile too. With that, she pops an earbud back in, plugs in the vacuum, and any further conversation is drowned out by the roar of suction on the carpet. I press my palms together and give a little bow in my mime of thanks, and slip out.
Guy’s given me a lot—shelter, food, clothing—but something about Rosa’s simple refusal to narc me out feels like the much greater gift.
The office door closes behind me, and the lock clicks into place. I make myself a promise: If I can get out of here and get my own life going again, I’m gonna help her do the same.
“I’M AFRAID I’VE KEPT something from you, Maren.”
My head jerks up from the plate of salmon and rice pilaf that I’m eating, once again, in the massive dining room. “Oh?”
I changed into a white sundress for dinner since it only seemed appropriate. I still don’t think I was doing anything wrong by using Guy’s computer, but the less he suspects me, the better. And somehow, I think the prettier I look, the less he’ll think anything is going on.
He smiles, and my heart pounds. His fiancée. He is engaged. He’s going to admit it, apologize, kick me out on the street because she’s coming back from her girls’ week in Nashville and wouldn’t like me living here.
“I’m hosting a fundraiser this Friday, and I’d like you to be there.”
I do my best to act surprised—because I am, only not for the reason he thinks. I must fail miserably, though, because Guy only smiles at me.
“Aren’t you going to ask what I’m raising funds for? ” he asks mildly.
“Oh, uh...” I blink a few times. “What for?”
Satisfied, he smiles. “I have something of a career change in mind. When District Attorney Ryan retires, I plan to run for his seat.”
“Oh,” I say again.
Guy frowns gently. “You don’t look too stunned to hear the news.”
My heart seizes. Does he know I was in his office? But no, I trust Rosa. I don’t think she has any reason to rat me out.
“You’re an ambitious type,” I reply. “So no, can’t say I’m shocked.”
But what about your fiancée? I scream internally. Where is she?
What did you do with her?
“No? Well, I’m glad to hear that.” He laughs a little to himself. “To be clear, I’d like to invite you as a guest, not a donor. No checkbook required. It’ll be held here, too, so it’s not like you have to go far, and I assume you’ll be able to find something in that wardrobe that’s suitable. I made sure there was a range of occasions available since you were starting from scratch.”
I dab at my mouth with my napkin. “No doubt,” I say.
“I must say,” Guy goes on, “that dress really suits you. You look so much healthier than you did when you first arrived here.”
“Proper sleep and hygiene will do that to a girl,” I say, “plus a little nutrition.” I lift my fork.
Guy’s jaw tenses. “It sickens me to think of what you went through,” he says, “a lovely woman like yours—”
“I’m tough,” I cut him off. “Uncle John was a bastard, but I’m past it. And it sounds like he’s going to pay for his crimes, which is all I ever wanted.”
Guy shakes his head. “That’s not what I meant. Well, it’s some of what I meant, but—” His eyes drill into me, even across the length of the table. “You... locked away with Locksley and his gang.” He clicks his tongue. “I know men like that, and I know what they do with someone like you, and it isn’t right.”
My throat goes dry. I swallow water, but it’s useless, because it isn’t untrue. Rob, Will, Tuck, LJ—they all had some...masculine needs, you could say. They all...took advantage of my body. Not in the sense that I was unwilling, but in the sense that, I don’t know...
Like they couldn’t help themselves.
Like, once I was there, it was almost an instinct to take me, to claim me.
Heat churns in my belly unbidden. I cross my legs, glad that this time I’m wearing underwear. In spite of myself, in spite of the lies, in spite of all they kept from me, I’m never going to be able to deny the pleasure that I felt with them, how badly I wanted it, how much I will probably still crave it for the rest of my life. No matter whether I ever find anyone else or fall in love, there just doesn’t seem to be any way I’ll ever achieve that kind of peak again.
I rub my lips together.
In a flash, I picture myself in bed later that night, in nothing but my nightgown, imagining my time with them, allowing myself to revisit it, pure and untainted, hot and urgent.
Suddenly, I feel like I might cry. Is this heartbreak? Hormones? What the hell is wrong with me?
I grip the edges of the table.
“Maren?” Guy’s voice jolts me back to reality.
“Sorry,” I choke out and blink a few times before meeting his gaze.
“Maybe we should talk about something else,” he says politely.
The reality hits me. No matter how far I get from them, no matter how much I establish myself, forge my own path, make my own life—which I’m hopefully closer than ever to doing—I’m never not going to crave them, all four of them. They put a burning void in me that only they can fill. I could never admit it out loud, but it’s the truth.
I feel the gentle weight of Guy’s hands on my bare shoulders. His skin is supple, smooth, not the hands of someone who works outside or handles weapons.
“You don’t have to worry anymore,” he says gently. “They can’t get you here.”
Words escape me, so I simply swallow and nod.
“And mark my words, Maren, if I can ever get a bead on them, I’ll—” His fingertips press just a tad harder into me, causing me to look up into his face. His eyes are flinty, focused. The set of his jaw is determined.
“You don’t need to,” I say, half-whispered. “I just want to move on as much as I can, anyway.”
I think Guy doesn’t move, doesn’t drop his resolve.
“I do have to,” he says. “That’s the kind of thing I can’t abide. Maybe it’s too hard for you to understand right now, Maren, but—” He looks down at me. “They’re animals. Animals. ”
The word sends a shiver to my core.