Chapter 7
CHAPTER SEVEN
DAPHNE
“You called back?” Guy’s voice tinges with surprise.
“I said I would. I’m a woman of my word.” I bet I could find a loophole in our deal. But Guy has me curious.
He let me go.
Hell, he drove me home, tucked me in, and fed Hawkeye. A couple pieces of kibble were left in his bowl, and I know it was spotless before I left for work. What the hell kind of kidnapper does something like that?
Even more surprising was the fact that I woke up with all my clothes still on. From the ripped dress to my bra. Hell, even my panties. I would have pegged him as a perv who’d steal a souvenir from his victims. Guess I was wrong.
At least, I hope I was. Nothing was missing when I checked my house this morning.
“Have you had breakfast yet?” Guy asks.
“No, breakfast for me is a cup of coffee.”
“Coffee is not breakfast.”
“It is once you become an adult.”
Guy’s chuckle rumbles and awakens something in my lower belly—a hunger of a different kind. Am I ovulating or something? That must be it. It perfectly explains why my body’s acting all soft and gooey from a man’s laugh. Ovulation mixed with a dry spell is a bad combination.
“I’m older than you, Princess, so that means I’ve been an adult longer. Have a proper breakfast, or I’ll drive back to your place and feed you myself.”
He wouldn’t dare… would he? He kidnapped me in broad daylight. I shouldn’t put it past him. I checked my Ring app this morning, and there was nothing. No signs of his car or him dragging me inside. Nothing.
He cleaned up his tracks.
“How old are you?” I ask.
“Still in my twenties, but older than you.”
“Yeah, that makes you so much more mature than me.” I roll my eyes even though he can’t see me.
“If I make some toast, will that make you happy?” I ask.
“I’d be happier if you had some eggs to go with it.”
“Well, too bad. I’m out of eggs. And butter. And bread.”
“Your groceries should be there in about ten minutes.”
“My groceries?”
“Yeah. Your fridge was empty, so I took the liberty of ordering some staples for you. You can make yourself a proper, adult breakfast. And the ice cream I ordered doesn’t count as breakfast either. I checked your freezer, too.”
“Did you poison them?” I’m not entirely convinced Guy isn’t going to kill me at some point. I know he’s going to kill again, and the fact that I don’t know who or how he’s doing to do it puts me on edge.
Just because he let me go doesn’t mean I’m free. No, he has plans I’m not privy to. But he’s evaded the FBI for months now. I doubt I’d be safe going to the police or even the Secret Service. Not that they’d do much for me. A rent-a-cop would be more effective than the suits Dad has on payroll.
“I’m not wasting perfectly good poison on you, Princess. Besides, you’re fun to talk to.”
I’m… fun? That’s not a word anyone associates with Daphne Fox.
“I can order my own food, you know.” I slam the fridge in frustration.
I’m hangry, and I want coffee, but I’m out of milk until his stupid groceries arrive.
Leaning down, I sit cross-legged on the kitchen floor as Hawkeye waddles over and clambers onto my lap.
He jumps up, licking my chin and making me laugh before I can stop it.
“Hawkeye, down.”
“And how’s our fur baby doing this morning?”
Our fur baby? What the fuck?
“My fur baby is doing fine. Thanks for feeding him. Though that wouldn’t have been necessary if you hadn’t kidnapped me yesterday.”
“Ah, but the kidnapping was necessary.”
Was it, though? It’s still surreal that he’d let me go just so I could spill tea on politicians.
“Speaking of, is that why you called me?” I ask. “You wanted information?”
“I need all the information you have on Representative McArthur.”
Hawkeye licks the underside of my chin again before settling down at my knees. “Connor’s dad? I’ll need you to be more specific.”
“Everything. Tell me every detail you know about him and his family.”
The McArthurs? I’ve known Cheyenne McArthur since we rushed the same sorority at Georgetown. I’d spoken to Connor on occasion, but last night was the longest we’d spent together alone. I’ve heard whispers of gossip about the family, but what is Guy fishing for?
“Well, for starters, he and my dad are on good terms. Our families are members of the same country club. He loves golf and World War II documentaries. He’s allergic to peanuts, and his last personal assistant was fired for eating a Snickers at her desk. Let’s see.”
I rack my brain for a moment, trying to think of what little I knew about the McArthurs.
Most of it was from Cheyenne gossiping about her family.
“Mom and Mrs. McArthur are both Daughters of the American Revolution. She wears green a lot. Cheyenne said her mom sometimes looked like a leprechaun with her red hair and green dresses. Connor’s got his head too far up his ass to notice anything that isn’t about Harvard.
And Cheyenne is married to a plastic surgeon and pregnant.
My family is invited to her gender reveal party next Saturday. ”
“A what?”
“A gender reveal? You know, those parties where they cut into a cake, and it’s blue for a boy or pink for a girl.”
“I know what they are. I just can’t believe people are still doing those.” His disbelief makes me giggle, even though I try to swallow it down.
“Sadly, yes. And as a woman in her twenties, I’m being subjected to it with a smile on my face and a roll in my eyes. And of course, everyone will be asking if I’m dating anyone because anything baby-related gives people permission to ask invasive questions.”
“Sounds like I hit a nerve there,” he teases.
I scoff. “It’s a nerve for every single woman in her childbearing years. Don’t get me started. I still haven’t had my coffee.”
“Speaking of, your delivery driver is around the corner.”
Hawkeye jumps up for attention before settling one paw on my pudgy stomach. “You know, I could afford to skip a few meals. It wouldn’t hurt to lose a couple of pounds.”
Guy’s voice darkens. “Actually, it would. Starvation’s not healthy. And if you pull a stunt like that, I will tie you up and feed you a full meal three times a day.”
“Didn’t know you had a food fetish.” My joke falls flat.
“I don’t like seeing people go hungry. And you wouldn’t joke about skipping meals if you’d ever been starving.”
That’s a peek behind the curtain. Had he starved at some point? Was he starving now? I’m sure he wasn’t right now if the man could afford to deliver groceries and drop off a burner phone spur of the moment.
Guy clears his throat. “I have some planning to do before next Saturday. When it goes down, act normal.”
Next Saturday? “Wait, you’re going to the party?” I didn’t invite him, and I doubt anyone that the McArthur family invited would know Guy.
“Oh, don’t worry. You won’t even know I’m there.”
What’s that supposed to mean? Another disguise? A mask? No way could he waltz in with a Guy Fawkes mask and not get arrested. Or shot. From what I’ve heard, McArthur is a proud card-carrying member and money-taking shill for the a certain gun-loving association.
“Guy, they’ll have Secret Service there. Don’t do anything stupid,” I warn.
“Just act natural, Princess. And try to look surprised when everyone starts freaking out.”
“Guy.”
“Look, the less you know, the easier it will be. Then you won’t have to lie to the police. You can innocently say you know nothing, you don’t know who did it, and you had nothing to do with it.”
Is he talking about murder? He’s going to murder Representative McArthur next week. And I’ll be in the same freaking room when a murder happens. And I’ll know who did it. It’s like the worst game of Clue imaginable. “I don’t like this.”
“Daphne, do you remember that underage child trafficking ring they broke up about six months ago? McArthur was a part of that. And he walked away without a smudge of dirt on his name and with his smile plastered all over the news. Those kids will never get their innocence back because of him.”
The snapshot of McArthur beaming at the camera like he won some sort of award rather than get off on a pedophile ring charge was the headline across D.C. for a week. Headlines usually don’t last more than a couple of hours here, but the Congressman’s story made international news.
“Look, you know I agree with you. Anyone with half a brain would agree that pedophiles deserve everything bad they get, but you’re sounding preachy, Guy.”
“Well, A-fucking-men.”
My stomach clenches with a sinking feeling. “Maybe I shouldn’t go.”
“You have to go. Your dropping out will look suspicious. Go. You’ll be fine. Act natural. And remember, you know nothing, Jon Snow.”
“Please update your pop culture references.”
His laugh on the other end of the phone warms something in my chest. “Listen, I need to go, and you need to eat. I’ll see you next Saturday. And don’t go looking for me. You won’t find me.”
And with a knock on the door, groceries appear, and Guy hangs up.
An hour later, another knock at my door jolts me up from the dining room table. What now? I’m still halfway through the scrambled eggs and toast I cooked. I swear, if he’s here to force-feed me, I’m going to shove it all down his throat.
Yanking the door open, I half expect to see another mask, but Connor’s annoyed expression greets me instead. Lucky me.
“Hey.” I step aside to invite him in. We’re not close. Connor’s never been to my house. But he has my purse clutched in his hand, which contains my wallet, which contains my driver’s license, which contains my address.
“Morning, Daph. You’re looking… clean.” He assesses my washed and still-damp hair twisted up in a hairclip as I shut the door behind him.
“Um, thanks?” What the hell do you say to that?
“I wanted to drop off your purse. What happened last night?” He gives that boyishly charming smile and fake laugh as he forks over the goods. “I’m not used to being stood up.”