Chapter 37 Genevieve
Genevieve
Lance is teaching Cavall to shake with his left paw. Something about him needing to be ambidextrous.
He’s been at it for ten minutes, crouched on the kitchen floor in sweatpants and no shirt, a piece of bacon held hostage between his fingers while Cavall offers the right paw over and over with increasing desperation.
“Left, Cav. Your other left.”
Cavall offers his right paw again. His tail thumps hopefully.
This dog can take down an intruder and listen to commands in German, but get him to switch paws and he refuses.
“You’re both hopeless,” I say from the barstool, my hands wrapped around the mug of coffee he made me before I even asked.
“He’s not hopeless. He’s stubborn.”
“Wonder where he gets that.”
Lance looks up, and his face does that thing. That softening. Like the whole world gets quieter when he focuses on me.
Tomorrow night, we leave. Paxton has everything set up.
A car that can’t be traced, a property in Boston under a name no one would recognize, cash, new phones.
In thirty-six hours, I’ll be looking for my father, and this cabin, this bed, this strange and terrifying and beautiful life we’ve been pretending is ours will be behind us.
The ring sits on the nightstand where I put it last night. I couldn’t sleep with it on. It’s too heavy, and every time it catches the light, I see Art on one knee and a hundred people clapping and Lance’s chin dipping across the table.
Lance reaches over the counter and tucks a strand of hair behind my ear. His fingers trail down my jaw, and I lean into the touch, closing my eyes.
“One more day,” he says quietly.
“One more day.”
His thumb traces my bottom lip.
And then a knock on the front door shatters everything.
We both freeze. Lance’s hand drops from my face. His eyes go flat, that instant shift from the man who makes me coffee to the man who survives. He moves to the window and angles his body to see the porch without being seen.
“Art,” he says.
My stomach bottoms out. I look down at myself. I’m wearing Lance’s shirt and have no pants. My hair feels like a mess. The ring is very much not on my finger.
“Go,” Lance says. “Bedroom. Close the door.”
I don’t argue. I grab my mug and move down the hall, but I don’t go upstairs to my bedroom. I go to his. I lock the door, and then press my back against the wall, close enough to hear.
“Morning,” Art says. “Thought I’d come by early. Figured we could get Gin moved over to my place today. She’s been here long enough, don’t you think?”
“Whatever you think’s best.”
“Where’d you run off to last night, anyway?” he asks. “It was a big moment for me, you’d think my best friend would stay to celebrate.”
I press my hand over my mouth.
“Forgive me for feeling like I’m not that important anymore. You don’t tell me when you’re leaving town. Don’t tell me when you’re back. Don’t tell me you’re planning on getting engaged at my brother’s party.”
“Fair enough. Where is she, anyway?”
“Guest room, I’d imagine. Still sleeping.”
“At nine thirty?” Art laughs. “That’s not like her. She’s usually up with the sun.”
That’s…never been true.
There’s a moment of silence, and my heart pounds in my ears.
“I tried to get her to come back with me last night, but she seemed adamant on saying goodbye to Cavall properly.”
“They’ve bonded.”
“Sounds like it. There’s a lot of bonding going on these days, huh? You know, I think I’ll wait here until she wakes up.”
“Art.”
“I said I’ll wait.” The lightness is gone. “Actually, while I’ve got you. Come outside for a second?”
A second. Then footsteps. The front door opens and closes.
I hold my breath, pressing my ear to the bedroom door.
But they’re on the porch now, and their voices are muffled.
I can hear the cadence but not the words, and it’s killing me.
I stand there for a full minute, straining, before I accept that I’m not going to hear whatever Art is saying to Lance on that porch.
And every second I waste listening is a second closer to Art walking back inside and finding me in Lance’s bedroom wearing Lance’s shirt, so I move fast. Up the stairs to the guest room where my things are, stripping Lance’s shirt over my head and pulling on jeans and a sweater.
I brush my teeth, rake my fingers through my hair, and twist it into something that looks intentional.
The ring is on the nightstand where I left it last night.
I stare at it for a long moment.
Then I slide it on. The weight settles onto my finger and my stomach churns.
Play the game. One more day.
By the time I come downstairs, Art is inside and Lance is at the kitchen sink with his back to the room. He’s gripping the edge of the counter, and something about his posture has changed. His shoulders are tighter. His breathing is too controlled.
Whatever Art said on that porch, it wasn’t good.
“There she is.” Art smiles when he sees me, and crosses the room to press a kiss to my forehead. “Morning, sleepyhead.”
“Morning.” I force a smile. “Sorry, I was exhausted from last night.”
“Big night.” He takes my hand and lifts it, admiring the ring like he’s seeing it for the first time. “Looks good on you.”
Behind him, Lance turns off the faucet. He dries his hands on a towel, and when he spins toward us, his face is perfectly blank. Our eyes meet for a fraction of a second.
One more day.
“Ready to come stay at my place?” Art asks, his arm sliding around my waist. “Now that we’re engaged, it doesn’t really make sense for you to be crashing in Lance’s guest room, does it? Especially since there’s not really a threat to you anymore.”
The way he says “crashing.” Like I’ve been an inconvenience. Like the last weeks of my life in this cabin have been a minor detour and not because I was in danger.
“Sure,” I say. “Let me grab my bag.”
“I’ll help.” Art moves toward the stairs. I press my hand to his chest and force a grin.
“I’ve got it. Just give me a minute.”
I take the stairs two at a time, throwing clothes into my duffel with shaking hands.
The guest room still smells like Lance’s laundry detergent because he washed my sheets last week without being asked.
There’s a book on the nightstand that he lent me, dog-eared to the chapter he said was his favorite, and I want to sit in this space, and let it soak into my memory, but every second wasted is a second Art could come bursting in, so I don’t.
When I come back down, Art is by the front door, scrolling his phone. Lance is still in the kitchen, leaning against the counter, arms crossed.
“Ready?” Art asks.
“Ready.”
I walk toward the door, and as I pass the kitchen, Lance speaks without looking up.
“See you around, Half-Pint.”
My throat closes.
“Later, Champ.”
Art holds the door open for me. I step through it without looking back, because if I look back, I’ll break, and queens don’t break where the enemy can see.
The mayor’s mansion is exactly what I expected and nothing like where I want to be.
Modern furniture that looks like it belongs in a showroom.
White walls, white counters, a kitchen that seems like it’s never been cooked in.
Art gives me the tour like a Realtor, pointing out the view from the primary bedroom and the wine cellar and the home office where his father “handles business.”
I smile and nod and make the right sounds, and the whole time I’m thinking about a cabin with dog hair on the couch and a pink stuffed duck on the counter and a man who teaches that dog to shake with the wrong paw and makes me bad coffee.
“Make yourself at home,” Art says, setting my bag in his bedroom. “I’ve got some calls to make. Business stuff.”
“Sure.”
I don’t ask if his dad’s here, because the thought of running into Franklin Penngrove is too much for me to handle.
He kisses my cheek and disappears into the office, closing the door behind him.
I sit on the bed. It’s enormous. California king, crisp white sheets, and it’s perfectly made. It smells like Art’s cologne and something sterile, like a hotel room that gets cleaned but never lived in. I unpack slowly, listening to the murmur of Art’s voice through the wall.
An hour passes, and I’m too antsy to sit still, so I try to call my father, my anxiety ratcheting higher when again, he doesn’t answer, and then I wander the house, opening cabinets, learning the layout the way Lance taught me.
Know your exits. Know your space. Know what’s behind every door.
Art’s father’s office door is closed. I press my ear to it, the way I did at Lance’s bedroom this morning, and this time, the voices carry.
“…tonight. Midnight. The usual setup,” Art says and then pauses. “He knows what’s expected, Benny, Christ.”
My spine stiffens. That’s what he was talking to Lance about. A fight.
“Yeah, I called Myrddin, asked him to be here personally for it.”
My hand is trembling against the door. My pulse is so loud I’m afraid they’ll hear it through the wood.
“Don’t fucking worry about, Gin. She’s here with me. She’s not going anywhere.”
I think I might be sick. I back away from the door on silent feet, my heart slamming against my ribs.
Lance is fighting tonight. And Art just talked about me like I’m a problem he’s solved.
I move numbly through the house, and sit on the pristine white couch in the keeping area and stare at the wall.
Patient. Waiting. Then you strike. Lance’s voice plays on a loop.
But I’m not striking tonight. Tonight, I’m going to the Lye, because the man I love is walking into a cage and I refuse to let him do it alone.
I spend the rest of the afternoon performing. I make dinner and I smile, and let Art pour me wine and tell me about his plans for “us” with an enthusiasm that would be touching if I hadn’t just heard him schedule Lance’s beating over speakerphone.
At ten, Art yawns and stretches. “I’ve got to head out for a bit.”
“At ten o’clock at night?”
“Rosebrook never sleeps, but don’t worry, my dad’s out of town, so you’ll have the place to yourself.” He winks. Kisses me. “Don’t wait up. You work tomorrow?”
I nod.
“I’ll take you.”
“I’d love that.”
The door closes behind him, and his car pulls away. I sit on the couch in the dark for ten minutes, and then I go back to his bedroom.
I tell myself I’m just unpacking. Getting settled.
Doing the thing a normal fiancée would do when she moves into her boyfriend’s house.
But my hands don’t reach for my duffel. They reach for his nightstand drawer, his dresser, the shelf in his closet behind a row of suits that smell like old money and secrets.
That’s where I find the boxes.
Three of them, stacked behind his garment bags, labeled in his handwriting.
F. Lawrence.
Frederick.
My hands are moving before my brain catches up.
I pull the lid off the first box and find tax returns, old leases, receipts from the tavern’s renovation.
The second box has photos—Frederick with Art’s father at some gala, Frederick behind the bar in what must have been the tavern’s early days, Frederick with Craig Calloway, both of them grinning like the world owed them something.
The third box has blueprints.
I almost miss them. They’re rolled up beneath a stack of old permits, the paper yellowed and soft at the edges. I pull them out and spread them across the floor, using my phone flashlight to read the faded ink.
It’s the tavern. I recognize the footprint immediately. The main floor layout, the bar, the kitchen, the storage rooms I walk past every shift. But beneath the main floor, drawn in thinner lines like an afterthought, there’s a second level. And beneath that, a third.
Tunnels. A whole network of them, branching out from the basement like veins.
One runs west toward the train tracks. One runs north, and I trace it with my finger, my pulse picking up, because it terminates at a small square marked with initials I can’t quite make out, near what I think is the tree line behind Montgomery Manor.
I’ve driven past that manor a hundred times. Juliette and Roman live there now.
And it’s only a few minutes from the tavern.
My heart races as my mind slots together a half-baked plan, and I take a photo of the blueprint with my phone.
Then another. Then I photograph every page, my hands shaking so badly the first few come out blurred and I have to retake them.
I put everything back exactly the way I found it.
Boxes stacked. Closet closed. Bedroom door shut.
And then I stand in the hallway with the blueprint glowing on my phone screen, a secret tunnel entrance marked minutes from the tavern, and the knowledge that I don’t have to walk through the front door.
I don’t have to sit here and wait.
Tomorrow night, Paxton gets us out. One more day. That’s all Lance asked for.
But it’s the one thing I can’t give.