Chapter 24. Ophelia
OPHELIA
“Is this a good idea?” I ask Russell, the Corbeau-Greens’ driver, as he pulls up outside Alex’s office building.
So here Fleur and I are, coming to make sure he’s okay, or to rescue him from a mountain of paperwork. Whatever is necessary.
I just hope he doesn’t mind me interrupting him when he’s clearly swamped.
“Better than him spending a night at his desk.”
Fleur and I have managed not one but two conversations on the drive.
She’s telling me about fashion campaigns from brands I’ve never heard of, and I’m nodding and saying things like true, barrel jeans are so dead (I have two pairs), and yeah, cellular beauty is definitely the way (I have no idea what that is).
Even if I had to google every person and place that she mentioned in order to keep up, it’s definitely something for the win column.
In the front, Russell undoes his seat belt. “I’ll go in with you, miss.”
I imagine Alex at his lowest, or fast asleep on his desk. He probably wouldn’t want Fleur or the staff there. “No, no. You stay with Fleur. He might not want company. We’ll be out in a few minutes.”
I step out the car, inhaling a heavy breath of air thick with the scent of rain and something uniquely New York City. I’m nervous. Why I am nervous?
The silver Green Aviation logo above the doors likely doesn’t help.
When the doorman lets me into the quiet lobby, I’m not sure I could look any more out of place if I tried. Everything is shiny: the floor is marble, and the reception desk has the largest bouquet of flowers I’ve ever seen perched on a plinth, for Christ’s sake.
This place must go through an incredible amount of window and glass polish.
The reception desk is empty, which is strange. I would’ve thought they always have someone here. For the third time, my call to Alex goes to voicemail.
Could he be in a session with Harwood?
At the row of elevators, I hit the shiny button on the wall with a bad feeling sinking into my chest.
The elevator beside me is stuck on floor six, a little red triangle flashing beside the number. When a pair of doors slide open, I press the button for the penthouse floor, but the key card reader beside the number pad flashes red.
Great. I need an access card. Obviously I need an access card.
I glance around the hallway. Where is everyone? I thought everyone in this city was a workaholic.
I pace down the hallway of elevators, searching for …
anything. An employee, a dropped access card, a janitor.
I find a conference suite, whatever the fuck that means, and a coffee shop, both just as deserted as the rest of the building.
It’s only when I’m turning to go and ask the doorman on the street outside for help that I spot a folded piece of paper wedged in the windowless door at the end of the hall.
Oh God. This is like a real-life horror movie. I put my foot in the door to keep it unlocked and unfold the note between shaky fingers. It’s going to be a ransom note, it’s going to be a horrible photo, it’s going to be—
It’s blank.
It’s a doorstop. That’s as underwhelming as it is relieving.
I call Alex again with no answer, peering up the stairwell; it’s not like the polished marble stairs with that ridiculous LED striplighting in the foyer. This looks like more of a maintenance stairwell, devoid of color save for the abandoned mop and bucket beside me.
I look back at the hallway of elevators, my eyes snagging on that one elevator, still stuck on floor six.
I feel tied to Alex in a way neither of us has ever been able to explain. All the time I’ve spent trying to snap the strings between us has only tied them tighter.
And I just know something’s wrong.
My worry for Alex’s mood turns into a different kind of worry entirely. I take the first few steps quietly, but I’m running by the time I reach the sixth floor, and, sure enough, the access door is propped open just enough for it not to lock.
It’s not cold, but my teeth are chattering, fingers trembling as I dial 911 and press my phone to my ear.
Silence.
I don’t have enough service on this floor to call for help.
I glance back toward the stairwell. I had service in the foyer, but I can’t turn back. Not if Alex is up here and in danger.
Somewhere deep in my chest, I know exactly what—exactly who—is happening here.
This is the moment I’ve imagined a thousand times over. This was always between Cain and me.
I slip through the door and into the unlit hallway, feet silent against the white flooring as I pace past an empty break room, a room full of cables and wires and glowing lights, then a cleaning supplies closet.
It’s deathly still.
I pull open a closet door, wincing at the creak of the hinges as I search the shelves for something, anything to use as a weapon.
A crowbar. I’ll never call myself unlucky again, because there’s a crowbar on the bottom shelf, sandwiched between two dustpans. It’s cool to the touch when I clutch it to my chest, heavier than I imagined.
I dial 911 over and over, but the call keeps failing as I hurry down the hallway until I skid to a halt outside the elevator.
Smashed glass. Dented metal. Alex’s phone, face down in a splatter of blood. And ironically, an odd sense of numbness washes over me. My fear for his safety melts everything else away, all the possible decisions and what should I dos converge into a single plan. I’m a woman possessed.
I follow the bloody trail, holding my crowbar in front of me like a baseball bat until I hear the sound of voices.
Holy shit, I’m really doing this.
A deep voice dripping with fury splinters the quiet: “Release the jet, Alex.” I hear a nauseating thud, a choked grunt that I know must come from Alex.
I stop outside the door, back pressed to the wall.
“I’ll give you one more chance, Alex, because I’d really rather not hurt you any more than I need to. Clear me a jet, get me out of the States, and you’ll be home in time for breakfast tomorrow.”
I hold my breath, leaning toward the small window in the door to some sort of control room and fuck. There are two of them. A smartly dressed man with a badly beaten face, and a hooded figure with his back to me that can only be Cain Green.
Cain steps to the left, and my stomach plummets six floors.
Alex is tied to a chair and he looks in a bad way.
His hair is a mess, tumbling over his forehead just enough to leave the cut above his eyebrow visible. Blood trickles over his temple and my heart pounding in my ears is the only thing I can hear.
I’m so consumed by rage, I almost smash my way through the door without a single thought. My hand is wrapped around the handle, the other clutching the crowbar, when Cain turns ever so slightly.
A gun glints in his left hand.
All confidence I had fizzles out. I’m out of my depth.
I flinch when his hand grips his son’s jaw, forcing him to look up.
Oh, Alex. I’m so fucking sorry I didn’t come earlier.
He looks so hurt. Blood trickles from his mouth, but it’s the grief swimming in his gaze that knocks the air from my lungs.
Cain thrusts a phone into Alex’s face, tightening his grip on the gun. Someone speaks on the other line, and I just watch, helpless, as the last of the fight leaves his body.
“Alex?”
“Dan, hi,” he rasps. “I need a jet, off the record. One passenger. I’ve got a passport. Can you sort it for me tonight?”
“Thought Green was done with all that, Corbeau.”
Alex’s eyes drift shut. His father presses the barrel of the gun into his temple to wake him up. “Yeah, well … something came up.”
“How are you gonna sweeten the deal?”
His head drops forward in defeat, blood dripping onto his lap. “Five hundred thousand.”
“Eight.”
“Fuck you,” he rasps, voice hoarse. Cain clicks the safety off the gun. I clamp my hand over my mouth to muffle my sharp inhale, but Alex’s head snaps up.
My eyes connect with his for the briefest of seconds, and even in the dark I see the fear in them, the horror that I’m here. Go, his say. Never, mine say back.
I pause for a moment, drag in the first steady breath I’ve taken since I got out the car. You can do this, Ophelia. Think.
I duck out of view, a plan forming. As a final hope, I text Russell. 911. I glance to the end of the L-shaped hallway, say a prayer, and run round the corner. I wrap my clammy hands around the handle of the door to the room beside me and push it open.
Then I slam it shut, hard.
I press my back to the wall, chest heaving as I wait and hope.
I hear a door open at the end of the hall, hear the other guy tell Cain he’ll investigate the noise, silence whatever janitor has made the mistake of coming up here after hours.
Thud, thud, thud.
Footsteps approach. My hands tighten around the crowbar. I wait and I wait and I wait for what feels like forever.
Now.
I lunge round the corner, slamming into something—someone. We both crash to the floor, and a white-hot flash of pain shoots up my thigh when my knee absorbs the impact.
The man in the suit kneels opposite me, red faced with fury. His eyes widen when they meet mine, and then he does exactly what I want him to. He shouts Cain’s name.
I expect my usual indecision, a second of hesitation, but there is none. The crowbar slams against his skull with a surprisingly quiet crack, and then he’s nothing but a wheezing, cursing pile of navy cashmere and polished leather on the floor.
My legs feel like jelly, but they carry me into a supply closet halfway down the hall, nonetheless.
I hide between racks of chemicals, watching the thin strip of frosted glass in the door as a shadow comes to a stop outside.
I hold both hands over my mouth, don’t dare blink, don’t dare breathe.
My stomach sinks, dread and relief in equal measure when the telltale whoosh of my message to Russell finally sounds.
For a sickening, awful second, I think Cain knows I’m in here. And then I hear a choked grunt from the guy down the hall, and Cain takes off running.
Alex. All I can think about is reaching him, helping him.
Heart thudding a rapid rhythm in my throat, I inch the door open, doing my best to ignore the pain in my leg, and listen. Cain’s footsteps thud round the corner into the second hallway as he makes a break for his accomplice.
When I skid into the room, the despair in Alex’s eyes almost brings me to my knees. He spits blood from his mouth, a desperate plea in his voice. “Go, Twist. Please go.”
“I’m saving you,” I whisper, though I doubt it comforts him. I squat behind his chair, frantically untying his hands.
“Go. He’ll be back.”
“I’m not leaving you here.” I pull one rope loose, grappling for purchase with the other. Alex’s head slumps forward, breathing labored. I shake my head, voice a whole lot surer than I feel. “Stay with me, Corbeau, I’m getting you out of here.”
His voice is barely audible when it comes. “He built a model train with me on my eleventh birthday.”
My hands blur, eyes sting, but I force away the tears. “I’m so sorry, Alex.”
“He built a train with me and now this.”
The second restraint drops to the blood-spattered floor. I round the chair to face him, hurriedly glancing over my shoulder. Bruises are forming above his right eye, and I’d do anything to take away his pain. I’d suffer for a lifetime if it meant he’d be happy. “Can you walk?”
“Get out of here, Ophelia.”
I hook my arms beneath his and haul him to his feet, a hand on his waist as I drag him on shaky legs into the hallway. The elevators. I just need to get us into an elevator.
“Are you hurt?”
I can’t help letting slip a disbelieving laugh as we near the silver doors. I leave him leaning against the wall and lurch to hit the elevator button, fumbling at his waist to get his ID badge from his belt. “Let’s worry about you before we—”
A lazy drawl caresses my back, a voice so similar to his son’s. “Ophelia Winters. What a delightful surprise.”
I freeze where I stand, lashes drifting shut for just a moment. “Cain.”
“You wouldn’t be taking my son from me, would you?”
I turn to face him, square my shoulders, and keep my gaze level even as he raises his gun. Alex steps in front of me.
“Out of the way, Alex. I wasn’t really planning to kill her, but since she’s flown all this way …”
I try to move, try to push Alex toward the elevator but he’s a wall of solid muscle, even injured and dazed.
Cain only smiles wider, and just the sight of him makes me sick. He has been the rotten core of my life for so long, the epicenter of all that is bad. “I warned you about distractions, son. Look what she’s turned you into. Don’t make me go through you.”
“Alex, go,” I plead. “This was always between your father and me. This has nothing to do with you.”
“This has everything to do with me.”
Cain has a glint in his eye: unhinged, crazed, a man with nothing left to lose.
He says he’d shoot Alex to get to me, and in that moment, I believe him.
I take a step to the right. Cain has a clear shot. Alex is none the wiser. The authorities must be close. If I can just keep Alex alive for a moment longer—
A gunshot cracks through the air, and I wait. Wait for the agony, wait for the blood, wait for the red-hot fire of a bullet in my skin.
And yet …
At the end of the hall, Cain slumps to the floor, a puddle of blood forming beneath his left leg.
With a high-pitched ringing in my ears, I look for a gun in Alex’s empty hands, he looks for a gun in mine, and then we both look up in slow motion.
At the end of the clinical, white hallway, Fleur lowers her weapon.