Chapter Twelve
CALEB
Helena arrives at the Halden carrying a cardboard box. The irony is obvious enough that I almost mention it. Then I remember what she told me about moving boxes. I keep my mouth shut.
We’re in the empty fourth-floor office again. Same dead radiator. Same scratched floor. Different atmosphere.
She sets the box between us. She came without a lawyer, without Tessa, without security.
Just Helena and several hundred pages of reasons I should probably never let her near me again.
“This is everything?”
“Everything currently identified.”
“That sounds qualified.”
“It is.”
She sits on the floor across from me. Today she is wearing a dark green sweater instead of a suit. No jacket. Hair loose.
I have never seen it fully down. It falls past her shoulders in a dark wave that softens her face enough to make me angry at my own attention. I look at the box.
“Start.”
She does. No defense. That matters more than I want it to. First: the background report.
Employment. Education. Public records. Things any determined person with money could buy.
Then: the expanded monitoring. Event schedules. Public photographs. My route between the studio and subway.
Places I ate. People I met. Most of it is mundane enough to be almost worse. Nobody should have this much information about where another person buys sandwiches.
“Which part did you ask for?”
“The first report.”
“Which part did you read at the time?”
She separates six pages.
“This.”
I take them. Owen’s summary. Clean. Corporate.
Stripped of photographs.
“He sanitized it for you.”
“Yes.”
“Convenient.”
“Yes.”
The lack of argument keeps taking weapons out of my hand. I set the pages down.
“Did you ask him to keep monitoring?”
“No.”
“Did you tell him to stop?”
“No.”
“Because you didn’t know.”
“Because I didn’t ask.”
I look at her. That answer is different. Harder on herself. More accurate.
She continues.
“I accepted specific pieces of information later without always asking where they came from.”
“Like my coffee.”
“Yes.”
“Schedule.”
“Yes.”
“My financial pressure.”
Her gaze drops to the file for the first time.
“Owen attempted to give me that after you established the boundary.”
“Attempted?”
“I refused the file.”
“When?”
“Yesterday morning.”
I sit back.
“You didn’t read it.”
“No.”
“Why?”
“You asked me not to.”
Simple. I look down at the pages. Something in my chest moves in a direction I do not trust.
“Okay.”
She waits. I open another folder. The charity drawing. Photographs from the hearing.
Restaurant. Property records. There is a printout of an interview I gave six months ago where the reporter misquoted the age of the Halden. A note in the margin corrects it.
I look at Helena.
“You corrected the building date.”
“It was wrong.”
“You were stalking me and got irritated by bad architectural journalism.”
“Yes.”
Despite myself, I laugh. She does not. Her cheeks change color slightly. That is new.
“You’re embarrassed.”
“No.”
“You are.”
“I am sitting on a dirty floor showing a man documentation of my worst behavioral decisions. I am experiencing several things.”
I laugh harder. She looks offended. Then something in her face breaks and she laughs too. For maybe ten seconds, the whole thing becomes absurd.
Then I turn another page. A photograph of me leaving the funeral home after my father’s memorial. The laughter stops. Helena sees what I am holding.
All color leaves her face.
“I did not ask for that.”
I stare at the image. My mother is behind me. My sister at my side. I remember that day by the pressure of the tie against my throat and the fact that I could not remember where I had parked.
“Did you see it before?”
“No.”
“You’re sure.”
“Yes.”
She looks sick. Not defensive. Sick. I believe her.
I put the photograph facedown.
“Get rid of that one.”
“Yes.”
“All copies.”
“Yes.”
She does not touch it. Waits for me. I slide it toward her. Only then does she place it inside a separate folder.
The gesture is tiny. It matters. I hate how many tiny things matter with her. We work through the box for another hour.
By the end, I have a rough line. Things Helena did personally. Things she requested. Things Owen or his vendors added.
Things neither of us can explain. The supplier settlement is not in Helena’s records. Neither is the hotel upgrade. The recent photos definitely are not.
There is still something else. Someone else. When the last folder closes, Helena sits with both hands resting on her knees.
“Anything else?”
“Yes.”
Her shoulders tighten. I almost enjoy that.
“Why did you really buy the Halden?”
“I told you.”
“You told me part.”
“Yes.”
“Tell me the ugly version.”
She looks at the cardboard box. Tessa’s phrase, apparently. Then at me.
“The previous owner intended to issue nonrenewals after sale.”
“I know.”
“Your studio was first.”
That I did not know.
“Why?”
“You had the longest fixed-rate lease and the strongest preservation restrictions attached to your space.”
I look toward the ceiling.
“Of course.”
“Removing you made redevelopment easier.”
“And you stopped it.”
“Yes.”
“Because of me.”
Her eyes meet mine.
“Yes.”
No qualification.
“I knew the purchase made sense as part of the portfolio. I also knew I would not have moved that quickly if your office had not been first on the list.”
My jaw tightens.
“You could have told me.”
“I could have.”
“You could have offered to buy the building with tenant protections and let me know.”
“Yes.”
“You could have asked if I wanted help.”
“Yes.”
“But you didn’t.”
“No.”
“Why?”
She looks at her hands.
“Because asking meant you could say no.”
There it is. The first answer all afternoon that sounds like blood. Not strategy. Not structure.
Fear. I lean back against the wall.
“And you hate no.”
“Yes.”
“Because you’re rich.”
“No.”
Her answer is immediate. Then she pauses.
“Money makes it easier to avoid hearing it.”
That is the most dangerous thing she has said yet. Because I understand it. Not the money. The avoidance.
I look at the dead radiator. At the peeling paint. At her ruined relationship with cardboard boxes sitting between us.
“I need rules.”
She nods.
“Tell me.”
“Information gets shared.”
“Yes.”
“No secret security work.”
“Yes.”
“No financial intervention.”
She hesitates.
“Why?”
I give her a look. She catches herself.
“Sorry. Yes.”
“No. Ask.”
Her expression changes.
“What if the Halden requires owner spending?”
“That isn’t about me.”
“Okay.”
“What if your company is spending money because I’m in danger?”
“I want to know before it happens.”
“Even if telling you reduces effectiveness?”
“Especially then.”
She absorbs that.
“Okay.”
“If you need my location, ask.”
“Yes.”
“If I want you to have it, I’ll share it.”
“Yes.”
“Temporarily.”
“Yes.”
“Do not look at my mother.”
Her face tightens.
“I won’t.”
“Not online. Not through security. Nothing.”
“Yes.”
“Mason is not a target.”
“He was never—”
“Helena.”
She stops.
“Yes.”
“If I call you for help, helping with the problem is not permission to take over everything around it.”
Her expression changes again. This one hurts more. Because she knows exactly why I said it.
“Agreed.”
I look at her.
“You’re accepting this very easily.”
“No.”
That surprises me.
“No?”
“It is not easy.”
“Then why aren’t you arguing?”
“Because difficult and unreasonable are not the same thing.”
I blink at her.
“Who are you and what did you do with Helena Ward?”
A small smile.
“Temporary malfunction.”
I smile back before I decide not to. Silence settles. Different from the silence last time. Less hostile.
More dangerous in another direction. Helena looks at the box.
“Is there anything else?”
“Yes.”
Her smile vanishes. I take out my phone. Open location sharing. Set it for eight hours.
Place the phone between us. Her eyes drop to the screen. Then rise slowly to mine.
“What is that?”
“You know what it is.”
“You said—”
“I know what I said.”
“Caleb.”
“For the anonymous sender. Until eight tonight.”
She does not touch the phone.
“Are you sure?”
The question does something unpleasantly warm behind my ribs.
“Yes.”
“You can turn it off whenever you want.”
“I know.”
“Do you want me to use it only if something happens?”
“No.”
Her attention sharpens.
“If we’re working together on this, you can know where I am for eight hours.”
I point at her.
“Do not make that face.”
“What face?”
“The one where you look like I handed you the Hope Diamond.”
“I do not.”
“You absolutely do.”
She looks away. Actually looks away. I have never seen Helena Ward lose a staring contest. I grin.
She notices.
“Stop.”
“This is incredible.”
“You are behaving badly.”
“You stalked me for eleven months.”
“That argument cannot remain universally applicable.”
“Give me a few weeks.”
Her mouth moves. Then she laughs under her breath. The sound fills the empty room. I look at the box.
At the records. At the photograph of my father’s funeral hidden inside the destroy folder. None of this is fixed. None of it is safe.
Helena has crossed lines I still don’t know whether I can forgive. Someone else has crossed worse ones using the shadow of what she did. But for eight hours, she knows where I am because I decided she could. That difference is small enough to fit on a phone screen.
It feels enormous. Helena stands.
“Where are you going?”
“You have a site visit in Brooklyn at four.”
My eyes narrow. She freezes. Then closes her eyes.
“Public calendar.”
I narrow my eyes. She opens hers.
“You invited contractors through the studio account.”
“Technically allowed.”
“Yes.”
“Still creepy.”
“Yes.”
I stand. At the door, she steps aside instead of going first. Another tiny thing. Another thing I notice.
“Helena.”
“Yes?”
“If you want to know where I’m going after Brooklyn…”
She waits.
“Ask me.”
Her expression goes still. Then, softly:
“Where are you going after Brooklyn?”
I smile.
“Home.”
The answer seems to matter to her. Maybe because she had to ask. Maybe because I chose to tell her. For once, I do not need to know which.