Chapter 9 Slade #2
Some of the only moments of peace I get are when I’m in the elevator.
It’s the in-between. Just me and the low hum of the distant motor until I’m at my office.
When I’m alone and the walls are close enough, I can hear my thoughts without drowning in the opinions of everyone else.
Here, I’m not a congressman, not a grandson, not a monster playing savior—I’m just quiet. Slade.
It’s always been this way.
When I was younger, my grandfather had his “gatherings.” Half-naked women laughed while powder lines stretched in endless strips across the table, and the men he worked with drowned themselves in alcohol.
I’d slip away to his condo’s private elevator with a stack of comic books tucked under my arm, press the button for the bottom floor, and sit cross-legged in the corner. The world went quiet except for the low hum of the motor carrying me up and down.
Most of the time, no one looked for me. He didn’t notice. He was too high, drunk, or lost in the women’s attention to care. It was the only place I could go to get lost in the pages full of people who actually fought for something. Sometimes, I think that was the last place I felt safe.
Not the penthouse. Not the office. Not the summer mansion. Not the DuPont legacy.
The damn elevator.
I guess some things never change.
My reflection in the closed steel doors is diabolical. I’m put together—tailored suit, ironed tie, fresh shoes—but inside I’m chaos. Hungry for sure. Disheveled and tired. And too concerned about a single dandelion in my yard.
Ugly damn thing.
The first thing on my list for Elliot is to have him bump up my lawn service and to make sure they spray for weeds.
Floors continue to roll by, and I know my time to soak up the peace is nearing the end. It hits the top floor, and as soon as the elevator dings and the doors open, Elliot is standing there, schedule in hand.
When I step out, he heels at my side as I walk to my office.
“Good morning, Congressman. Okay, so the education funding bill has stalled in committee—again—but they’re trying to push it through.
I sent over your thoughts. You’ve got the Veterans Affairs call before nine, then a closed-door budget meeting with Bishop and Cooks at ten.
Your statement on the newest energy resolution needs to be finalized by noon.
Staffers flagged a few things, mostly language that could backfire—I’ll email you the edits.
Oh, and the ethics committee sent over a reminder about disclosure filings, which I know you hate, but we can’t ignore this time.
Congressman Petes, from Maryland, had to cancel lunch, and your grandfather called. Twice.”
I round my desk as he’s finishing up and gesturing to some paperwork on my desk.
“Should I schedule lunch with—”
I shake my head. No. I don’t want a scheduled lunch—I don’t even want to be here at all today.
My duty is a smoke screen. I’m so deep in with Echelon Vanguard it’d take an act of war or the president himself to remove me from office.
Their parties, bills, committees—most of it a waste of time.
Oh, how naive I was. Thinking I could make a difference in education in Washington.
EV may be the problem here in Chicago, but the problem in this country … sits in D.C.
Leaning down, I grab a pen and scribble my signature on the paperwork, then hand it to the man patiently waiting.
“I’ll get this sent over. And let me know if you want lunch. I’ll order in. And don’t forget your grandfather.”
I snarl at him as he ducks out and closes my office door. With the click of several keys, I type in my password and fire up my computer ready to tackle some emails. My screen dings, showing that someone sent a secure message to my EV account.
It’s from Graves.
Where the hell is V? Have you seen this?
He attaches a news article by none other than Piper Reeves herself. Power, Privilege, and Silence: Is Chicago Hiding a Shadow Network?
Ignoring Graves, I pull up a secure message thread to Vaughan.
Slade: The Eight are getting impatient. Feel like coming home soon?
His response is instantaneous.
V: So … he sent you to beg?
Slade: Strongly persuade. They get unhappy when you’re gone too long.
V: They need better leverage.
Slade: Leverage? Pretty sure Graves owns you. He wants the Cleaner back.
V: I like the solitude of the island. Learned how to fish.
Slade: Fish? Hell, V. Graves won’t be happy until you’re back gutting for him. What are you trying to do? Retire?
V: Call it survival.
I send him the link to the article Graves sent me and close out my messages instead of waiting for his reply. He’ll come home. He’s addicted to his job. Craves it. And Graves knows how to leverage that, leverage him. God help us all when he decides he’s had enough.
It doesn’t matter how much work I get through, the day drags, and by the time Elliot returns for the end-of-day briefing, my mind has wandered.
Did she leave full and rested? Did she make it back okay?
I texted Edmond this morning to tell him to go with her. In the short time she was at the lake house, she seemed to cling to him. Looking at him for instruction, thanking him, and smiling in his direction.
It shouldn’t matter. Not like this. But I wanted her to be comfortable, not to worry on the ride back if the guards would take advantage.
Thea.
Knowing her name should’ve been passing knowledge like the others. But it’s festering, and I can’t shut off the desire to know her more.
Why this one has crawled under my skin is—doesn’t matter—it’s inconvenient. There. Like a lingering cough after a severe cold.
The club permits EV members at any time during the week.
Security is there twenty-four seven, and the bar is available.
Cigar rooms, parties, business dealings—it all happens there throughout the week.
I never go, choosing to stick only to my Friday night obligations.
But I could go tonight. Would I see her?
I could go. Just this once. To check.
Realizing I missed everything Elliot was reporting on, I gesture at him to type it all up in an email and send it to me.
Screw it. I’m going. No matter how annoyed it makes me.
Wait—damn it. No, I—
I stand, snapping my fingers for Elliot to get out, then I jerk toward the windows overlooking Chicago. The city pulses with urgency during the end-of-day rush hour. Cars are packed together, brake lights flicker, and clusters of people push through crowds to get home.
Steel, glass, the familiar restlessness of the unforgiving city. From this height, I’m removed, and as the sunlight cuts sharp between the buildings, I count down the hours until dark. Until I can make my way to EV.
I don’t even know her. But some messed-up part of me acts as though it does. As though it’s already decided. I tell myself it’ll fade once I see her again, hear her, remind myself she’s just another means to an end. I tell myself I know better, but I’m not sure I’m listening.