Chapter 5 #4
“Let’s just say I know how to squirrel things away too.” Then he pushed off the wall and resumed his usual terse expression. “Back to the roof. That bomb isn’t going to build itself.”
I hesitated. “Alexander?”
He ran his eyes over me.
“Maybe we could both stop.” I swallowed thickly. “Hiding things, I mean.”
Exhaustion poked through his sternness. “Yeah, wouldn’t that be something.”
“Some would call it normal. You know, talking about your feelings.”
“Normal.” He inhaled deeply. “I want that for you, Arden. I really do.”
“But not yourself?”
He shook his head gently. “It may not seem like it,” he said carefully, his hand reaching to the back of his neck and kneading it, “but this is happy for me. Normal.”
“You’re in pain,” I whispered, jutting my chin to his hand.
He dropped it, flexing his fingers with a furrowed brow as if he hadn’t realized he’d been trying to massage away the pain. Then he forced a smile. “Normal for me won’t be normal for you. You’ve still got your shot at life, Arden. All of you do.”
I folded my arms. “I don't know if I see it that way. What makes you think that?”
He shrugged and loosened his tie, fully letting go of his put together exterior and melting into the man I had grown to care for like family.
Kind. Undeniably selfless. And brave. Jesus.
His bravery—building the Ravens under the noses of S.I.N.
—was unfathomable. “I just know,” he said simply.
“There hasn’t been much you haven’t achieved when you want it.
You’re building bombs from books, Arden.
You’re crazy smart—and yes, I do mean both crazy and smart.
But you’re…special. And I know you don’t want to hear that, that you hate being put on a pedestal.
I know that, because I hate it too. The Ravens do that to me, and sometimes it makes breathing so much harder.
But I believe it. I look at you, and I understand completely why Creed defers to your say.
It’s blinding to watch over you. In the best way. ”
I swayed unevenly. “Why did that feel like something you had squirreled away?”
He rolled his eyes, an uncharacteristically charming and boyish grin lighting up his face. “Get on the roof and back to work.”
“You’re not joining me?”
His grin fell. “I…can’t. I have to meet with my doctor.” His throat worked. “But tomorrow. I’ll be there.”
I clutched my biceps. "You still want to hang out on the roof even when there won't be a bomb to build anymore? At least, hopefully."
“Yeah. We can have dinner with the others and listen to music,” he said, forcing himself to sound casual despite the shake in his voice. “I’ve still got some life in me, and so do you, Arden Creed.”
“My friend Leah used to say something like that.”
“Mmm. Sounds like someone I would’ve liked then. Tell me about her tomorrow? After we've blown Halden to pieces?”
I managed a small smile. “Sure. Tomorrow.”
He tapped his nose once in agreement before strolling to the door to leave.
We never got tomorrow.
I raked in a shaky breath, realizing that the gold bracelet Florence was wearing at the warehouse had been that necklace.
She must’ve wrapped it around her wrist a couple times, and I knew that she’d likely worn it since the day Alex passed.
My heart ached for them, for everything they would never have together.
One day, I wanted to sit with her and tell her what he did for Creed, for me.
I was sure Mick and the others had already doused Alex’s little sister in stories, but it still felt important to give what I could to her, especially after she gave so much to Creed.
Rafe and I would have never been able to have a full conversation if it hadn’t been for her teaching us ASL.
I forced a few blinks, steadying myself against the wall.
I was losing focus, allowing guilt and ghosts to take me away from what mattered most. You can’t grieve him yet, any of them, I told myself and pried open the cache, grabbing a fresh gun since I left mine in the car with Rafe.
Still, it took a lot to bring myself away from that grief. Leah. Thorne. Alex. Kane… No. No.
I held the grip firmly, testing the weight, before my eyes caught on a small duffel shoved behind gear.
My pulse stuttered. I sat the gun aside and pried the bag from its wedged spot, unzipping the top.
The air became thinner, harder to pull into my lungs, when I spotted a swash of red fabric and shiny black.
It felt like lifetimes ago that I wore that red dress and Viktor’s black pearls, but there they were.
Scowling, I fingered the fabric in anger, the memory of the night Viktor tattooed DOLL into my arm crawling back under my skin.
Gritting my teeth, I plucked both dress and pearls into my grasp and marched down the hall.
It only took me a minute to get the fire lit in the fireplace, and I tossed the dress in, fisting the pearls.
For some reason, I couldn’t let them go.
I think part of it was that Leah, just like all of Viktor’s Dolls, had worn the same kind the night I found her dead at that gala.
I didn’t have anything else physical to tie back to her, so I shoved the pearls into my pocket with a grimace, watching the red dress shrivel.
After a few moments, I gathered further courage and explored the rest of the townhouse.
Every step felt like trespassing in my own past, like I was walking through a version of that place that no longer belonged to me.
I bit down on my tongue when I found my old room.
The sight of it knocked something loose in my chest, not shock exactly, but a hollow recognition that the room wasn’t mine and likely never would be again.
It must’ve been given to Florence or Grace, the place redecorated, but I did find some of my thrifted clothes in the back of the closet, including my jeans and a tank.
I can’t really explain why I changed into them.
My other clothes were better for fighting, but something about that ratty outfit brought me even closer to my anger over Viktor.
It was…a deliberate choosing of pain instead of protection.
I needed to burrow into myself, to set the killer inside me free.
As much as I despised the torture I endured, I also recognized that the hardened pieces of me were vital to getting out of further torture unscathed.
That outfit—it was the same kind of outfit I’d chosen at Viktor’s estate whenever I finally got to shed my Doll dress and paint.
It was the outfit I rebelled with Leah in, kissed Thorne in, and entered that courtyard in.
It was armor, better armor than anything else I could’ve worn.
I folded my jacket over my arm, carrying it back to the parlor, the pearls clinking softly against my lighter in its pocket.
The sound anchored me and unraveled me all at once.
Blood dripped from my hair as I walked, dark drops marking the floor behind me, and I thought faintly to clean myself up—but then the memory of Alex drying my hair that night before he introduced me to S.I.N.
blinded me, fucking crippled me. I grasped the back of his chair in the parlor with a gasp, my jacket sliding off my arm and draping over the chair’s back, my fingers digging into the wood.
With a shaky breath, I moved to the bar cart and filled a glass with brandy, taking a long drink.
The burn grounded me, dragged me back into my body when I’d been on the verge of leaving it entirely.
I couldn’t risk dissociating. I needed to stay on that edge.
I distantly heard thunder rumbling outside when I moved back to Alex’s chair and slowly let myself settle into it, my body rigid.
I gripped the armrests, staring across at the chair he tied me to that first night.
“I miss you,” I whispered before my spine stiffened at the sound of the townhouse door opening and closing, bootsteps following.
Of course, you know this part, don’t you, officer? Keep fucking driving. We’re almost there. I guess I’ll go over it, what got us in your car driving—Why are you only going eighty? Fuck. Go faster. Thank you. Now, back to it.
I couldn’t help but grin a little when I saw it was only you.
I really did think my plan had worked, that I’d hooked a crooked cop with a taste for fame, someone who’d read that note and seen an opportunity instead of a problem.
A promotion. A headline. Something shiny.
Officer Morris, your badge read. But the clock was ticking—is still ticking—and every second that passes, I know that Rafe is catching up to Viktor, that Viktor is catching up to Henry, and that Kane may be taking his final breaths. So for fuck’s sake, faster.
In the parlor, you asked me dull questions for an officer who walked in on a woman covered in blood.
You’re polite, at least. I’ll give you that.
I thought I’d speed things along by just flat out saying I was guilty, but I saw it in your eyes—you’re too fucking by the book, aren’t you?
Your hands are clean. Your instincts are procedural.
You took one look at me and were already thinking about forms and stations and backup, about what came after me, while I was still trying to prevent what comes next.
Unfortunately, officer, innocence is as malleable as corruption.
I expected a crooked cop, but you’ve proven to be just as easy to manipulate.
Please don’t take offense to that. I know it sounds bad, but I genuinely hope that despite everything I’ve told you, you hold onto your need to go by the book.
Specifically, I hope you take those good instincts and put them to work against S.I.N.
Because it’s kids, officer. They’re just kids.
They deserve the chance Creed and the Ravens never had, and maybe because you seem like a good guy, like maybe you’re honorable, you’ve actually listened to me, heard me.
You called your buddies when we first got in the car, and you did as I said, telling them there are kids at risk.
Maybe that will mean something this time, officer.
It’s just a maybe though, right? They’re just some missing kids that stayed missing.
It’s not your fault. You can’t save them all, but…
what if you could? Or at the very least, what if you could save thirty-five, tonight?
Because you can. You can refrain from telling your backup anything about this involving Creed and you can make this a rescue, not a shoot out.
The Ravens are relying on you. They have their hands full with all the other orphanages and foster homes.
Trust me. Going to the cops wasn’t what I wanted, holding you at gun point isn’t either.
But you can save those kids, Officer Morris, and you can let Creed take care of the human equivalent to shit on the bottom of your shoe. It’s really that simple; it will be that simple.
Hope, officer. Do I dare put any faith in you?