Chapter 42
Chapter Forty-Two
LUKA
I sip coffee and watch from the pillar that divides the kitchen area from the sunken living room area as Edie explores my place, running her fingertips over the marble surfaces, the couch, a chair.
She touches the elaborate moldings around the windows and then gazes down at the Hudson and the Palisades.
I follow her gaze to where the rugged cliffs are tinged with the faint green of newly budding trees. The blue sky soars above, and fluffy white clouds cast fast-moving shadows on the water.
“This view in the daytime. Just wow.” She’s already said “wow” twice.
I iced her arm, followed by a heat wrap and a lot of balm, and now it’s bandaged to the best of my abilities, which is pretty fucking good if I do say so myself.
We slept in, then ordered donuts that arrived just as the coffee was ready.
She takes hers black, and her favorite donut is a French twist with white icing.
I file it all away with the hats and the harmonica, which she’s going to have to play for me at some point. Harmonica. So old-timey.
She wanders to the oil painting above the fireplace.
Three black blobs over a field of blue with one white dot in a random fucking place.
The thing’s as big as a bicycle, loaded up with so much paint it’s practically sculptural.
I never really thought of it, not since the day the real estate agent suggested I get my own art, and I told her to fuck off.
I see now that it’s a ridiculous painting, but Edie looks at it for a long time, giving it a chance, maybe.
It’s not her style, that much I know; I saw the way she decorated her dorm. She’d hate statement art designed to go with couches, and that’s what this is.
I never cared before today.
Only Orton and Storm have crossed into this space, and they would never look at the artwork.
They would never touch the furnishings just to touch them.
None of us ever thought to even care about what we surround ourselves with.
We’re so used to moving through other people’s spaces, usually with bad intent.
Edie turns around, done with her perusal of the piece, and looks at me.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
A lie. She has thoughts. She always does. It’s the art.
She heads to the bookcase, pausing at the shelf of framed pictures. One is some bridge. One is a painted door, probably in Europe. One is a boy flying a kite.
She picks it up. “Is that you?”
“No.”
“Is it a relative?”
“It’s a boy flying a kite.”
“You don’t know who it is?”
“Nope.”
“You have a picture of a random boy flying a kite?”
“Yeah.”
She smiles uncertainly and puts it down.
“Are we almost done with the inspection?”
She gives me an indignant look. “Are you kidding?” She moves on to the books themselves. “You have some really interesting books.”
“There’s nothing interesting about those books, I promise you.”
“Are you kidding? The Dawn of Western Civilization ? That is nothing if not—” Her words die as she attempts to extract the book from the shelf and instead gets the boxy cardboard shell disguised to look like a row of books.
“Oh my God! What the hell?” She holds the thing like it’s a dead rat.
“I told you they weren’t interesting.”
She regards me with horror. “It’s just a cardboard facade! Are all of these...?”
“All of them.” I take it from her hand and put it back.
“Why would you have fake books on your shelves?”
“Well, they are bookshelves.”
She squints at me. “But those aren’t books!”
“Who cares? Do I look like a librarian to you?”
“You do read books, don’t you?”
“Of course.”
“Well, where are the books that you’ve loved? Are there books out there that you imagine you might like to read? Or that you’re currently reading? I mean... shells made to look like books? Who does that?”
Shells made to look like books.
The phrase is jam-packed with scorn. Leave it to Edie to get this upset about fake books.
“This stuff out here is just for show. It was here when I moved in. It’s just staging stuff.”
“This is a staged home? And you kept it like this? Why would you live in a home that’s just for show?”
“What’s wrong with it?”
“Well, for starters, what if you want to read an actual book? ”
“If I wanted to read a book, I’d go out and buy it, or I’d order it as an ebook. I’m not somebody who collects a lot of stuff.”
“But you own this place, right?”
“Yes, and I like it the way it is.”
“So you like fake books?”
I go to her. “Maybe.”
“Shut up! Don’t you want to have things you love around you?”
It’s the sort of thing the real estate agent said to me. I gave her a flip answer, but I won’t do that with Edie.
“I don’t have things I love. Objects. Art I’ve gathered or whatever. I’m used to being on the move. I’m used to spending my time in hotels, barracks, and bombed-out buildings. A home has always been more of a transaction. Something temporary that serves a specific need.”
“As opposed to something personal.”
“Yes.”
“But this place, it’s beautiful. Out of all the homes you could have chosen, you picked this one. The fact that you picked it out makes it personal.”
“I picked it out for the location, exits, access to major roads, and resale value.”
She takes a deep breath, just a hint of a smile playing across her sexy lips. “Nothing personal, then. Just a transaction.”
I go to her, wrap her up in my arms, and kiss the top of her head.
“She can’t be dead. I still feel her.” Because, of course, that’s what’s on her mind.
“Good,” I say. “That’s a good sign.”
“You really think Bender never planned to help me?”
“That guy only wants to help himself, but it ends now. Our number one task right now is to figure out if he knows where your sister is. I’m gonna have you ask some questions.”
“He hates it when I ask him questions. ”
“Too bad. You’re gonna text him and say things are moving along, but you want proof of life.”
“I can’t do that! He’ll be mad. And he holds all the cards.”
“He’s holding some cards, but you’re his golden goose. You have something he can’t get from anybody else—access to me and my secrets. And secrets are power.”
“I wish I’d never told him anything.”
“You told him nothing of importance. You were amazing. And brave.”
She rolls her eyes.
“You were. Most people would give up everything in your position. Here’s what’s going to happen. You need to figure out a question that only your sister would know the answer to. Something obscure. That will be your proof of life. He has to get her to answer that question.”
“He’ll freak out!” she says. “You don’t know him.”
“Oh, I know him well enough. I know he hurt you,” I say, trying to hide the murder in my voice. “I know he intimidates and bullies you. I know he constantly breaks his word. That right there is a weak man. We can work him?—”
“But if he takes it out on my sister?—”
“Proof of life is a normal ask, and he knows it. I guarantee you, he expects you to ask for it. He’s probably surprised you haven’t already.”
She looks thoughtful. “Have I been a patsy?”
“You’ve been amazing.” I pour more coffee. “After that, you’ll text him and let him know you’ve got the story and the hair.”
She takes a seat at the kitchen island. “But... the plan was that he’d text me when you showed up at the restaurant, and I’d burst in. Obviously, that never happened. So how did I find you?”
“Tell him I hunted you down, but you don’t know how.”
“I don’t know how.”
“Always best to stay closest to the truth.”
She narrows her eyes. “But between us, how did you find me?”
“Fingerprints. You were fingerprinted for your university job.”
Her eyes widen. “So you fingerprinted me?”
“Well, I am a brutal criminal.”
She stares at the window.
“Go ahead. Ask.”
“What happened with your brother? Why did you... gouge out his eyes?”
“Not an easy rumor to come by,” I observe.
“It took a bit.” She gazes at me, strong and steady. She wants to know. She’s different, this girl.
I line my mug handle up with the edge of the counter.
“Growing up, it was just the two of us—Alteo and me. Alteo was seven years older and very much my father’s son.
Violent, angry, and excited to be in the Ghost Hound Clan.
For me, the last thing I wanted to do was to follow in his footsteps.
But I was expected to. In my world, the sons follow the father. ”
“Even if they’re not into it?”
“It’s like the royal family in a way. There’s a whole bloodline thing with the clan leaders, the kyre, descending from an ancient king on a mountaintop like our fucking Jesus.
It’s hard to explain. Our lore and the superstitions that have been handed down are a sort of gospel to us.
You don’t opt-out. The oldest usually takes over control of the clan, but the younger brother is in the clan, too.
Anyway, the fights between my father and me got worse every year.
He was a lot harder on me than he was on Alteo.
Nothing I did was right. And then, one hot July night, men came to take me to a school.
They wouldn’t say anything about it, just that it was a school.
I absolutely didn’t want to go; they had to drug me.
I woke up in a cell in St. Neri Reformatory deep in the jungles of Tucumayo. ”
“Oh my God. Just... no warning?”