Chapter 13 #2
“What do I have to do?” I sign. Tristan’s hand rests on my shoulder, our new way of affection coming along further and further by the day, although he still asks me every night if he is allowed to sleep next to me in his bed and offers to take the mattress on the floor.
Those nights, snuggled against his bare chest, leaving small, wet kisses on his skin, I sense his whole body tense, fighting for more and still waiting, letting me set the pace.
Tristan translates for them, but I do not miss the dark shadow beneath his eyes, the controlled panic he is trying so hard to conceal to protect… me.
Garron takes the lead after a nod from Tristan. “Your role is central, but your only goal is to lead him to us. He needs to identify you and believe you may have some sort of trauma bond with him, or that you are conflicted enough to isolate yourself with him.”
Brenton continues, “You will enter like any other guest, in disguise. Three officers will be near you at all times. Here are their pictures. They will be in costumes too, but you will still be able to identify them if necessary.” He slides a small laminated card across the counter.
On it are photographs of three people: a woman in a black evening gown, a man with blond hair and a brown golden mask, and a younger man dressed like a waiter.
“Plainclothes officers,” Brenton says. “You do not have to approach them unless you need help. They will be close enough to see you, but not so close that Vodianov notices them first. If you see Cole, we advise you not to react openly.”
“How will I be able to tell you if he saw me?” Tristan translates for me. At this, Deputy Garron slides a black box across the counter and opens it, revealing a blue gemstone necklace with a large heart pendant. At least three times the size of mine.
“It’s an artifact, made by our special devices team,” she explains.
“The heart here contains a silent alarm.” She points without touching it.
“Press it once, as if you’re, let’s say, adjusting it.
That gives Mr. Ashford’s security team and our plainclothes detail a visual signal.
One touch means you saw him. Two touches mean he saw you and is following you.
Three touches mean you need immediate help.
” For a moment, the whole kitchen fades around it as I realize what task I am about to take on.
Approaching my jailer. The hand that curled around my throat like an iron claw.
My fingers brush the white gold necklace, careful not to touch the heart.
It does not seem fake, nor does it look like it is hiding an electronic device.
White gold shaped into small branches of frost, set with pale blue stones that catch the kitchen light like trapped winter.
A masquerade ball. I have never been to one.
Not even in my wildest dreams. I have seen Valeria, Mara, and Emily get ready for them, though.
Helped them make sure their gowns were ironed, their makeup flawless, their hair sprayed to the point that if they encountered a candle, they could have burst into flames.
Tristan had someone pick dresses for me upstairs, along with wigs, blond ones, silky and soft and so beautifully made, along with a thin white lace mask over my eyes.
Of all the dresses, I’d already picked the one I wanted.
Blue, because blue is my lucky color, one my mother used to wear all the time.
A strapless silver-blue satin gown, the kind of blue that looks as if it came from a river.
Tiny glass beads are embroidered on the lower part, with a bodice turning my waist and chest into a work of art, much more feminine than I would ever dare to be.
Which is the point. I will be a bold, seductive blond woman hidden behind thin white lace.
Nothing like my long black hair, or my shy nature, which would rather disappear underground than stand in the spotlight.
“Three touches means extraction,” Deputy Garron adds. “Our people will get to you and make sure you are taken somewhere safe.”
“Extraction,” Tristan repeats, grinding his teeth. I can almost see his mind churning with chess moves and old wounds, trying to make sense of my place in this operation, of the risk we are taking and the possibility of losing us in the process.
“It won’t come to that,” I sign to him. He does not translate. Tristan looks at me, and all the anger in his face cracks open into fear.
“Maybe,” he says quietly. “Once he sees you, he’ll want to get near you,” Tristan says, his voice stern and emotionless, back behind the armor I seem to be the only one able to see through.
Cole will not come for money first, or power, or Tristan, even if he hates him.
He will come because he wants to know if he can hurt the one thing that seems to break Tristan.
“He needs to think that I’m alone,” I sign. Tristan pushes away from the counter. Just enough to shift his body toward the window. His hand goes to the back of his neck. Nate watches him, then turns back to Garron.
“Just to clarify,” Nate says, his voice is light, but his eyes carry a harsher tone, “the plan is to let Cole believe Ella is more exposed than she is, while in reality, she will be surrounded by enough law enforcement and private security to make the ballroom look like a very well-dressed trap.”
“That’s a crude description,” Garron says, “but yes, basically, that’s exactly what’s going to happen.”
Nate looks at me. “See? Very well-dressed trap. Practically festive.”
I almost smile. Almost. It disappears when Tristan turns back around.
“How long have we known each other, Deputy Garron?” His tone calls for a challenge, the air getting sucked out of the room in an instant.
“Ever since your father passed away.”
“That’s what I thought.” He paces until he’s standing behind me, one hand possessively clasped around my arm.
“And you have high ambitions, am I right?”
“You do know that bribing a police officer is illegal,” she snaps back, used to the game.
His tone shifts, throwing her warning like a vulgar piece of paper. “If anything happens to Ella, I will see to it personally that your career ends at the very same time she gets hurt. Am I being clear?”
I expect her to retaliate, but instead she gives a clipped nod.
“Yes, sir.” So that’s how far his power extends?
My hand finds his, resting over it, and I wish I could tell all of them how kind Tristan is.
That right now, his threat is only a manifestation of his fear, a leap to try to take control of the things he has no agency over.
I love you, I want him to know. Only there are people here, and today has already been too much, so I do not say it.
I watch as the room loses tension and everyone gathers their things when Tristan dismisses them.
Deputy Garron comes closer to me before leaving.
“You’ll be all right, Ms. Brooks. Do not worry.
” I offer her a weak smile, full of hope and what-ifs, and nightmares.
Nate smooths his face over after walking Brenton and Deputy Garron to the door.
Before he comes back, Tristan bends slightly and presses his mouth to my hair.
Then Nate returns, sighing dramatically before gulping his coffee and putting on his suit jacket.
“Tell me you got croissants, because that was a hell of a morning.”
“We have toast,” I sign a bit too fast, knowing he’s used to Maddie’s instantaneous ASL.
He shrugs. “Yeah, that’ll do.” Tristan is gone into the living room, standing near the bookshelf next to the chimney.
“What is he…” Nate signs, stopping mid-sentence.
“He’s looking at a history book,” I reply silently, enjoying the fact that both of us share the ability to understand each other in this particular way.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” he mutters out loud.
“Planning is winning,” I sign, not even knowing where it comes from, though I do remember him telling me something like that from a book before going to bed a few nights ago.
“You know, the book thing, the obsession with what kings did and how wars were won, it started after our dad passed away. Eight years ago,” Nate signs, then circles toward the sink, opening drawers at random while chewing on a piece of toast with no butter or jam.
I eye him. “Hey, I’m a simple guy,” he protests.
Then he looks past me and shouts, “Napoleon!” The word pierces the air.
Tristan turns sharply, two books as thick as doorstops in his hands.
“See?” Nate grins. “Always works. What do you have there?”
“War and Peace,” Tristan says casually, coming closer. “And stop fucking shouting Napoleon.” He glances at me. “Last time he did this at our performance meeting.”
“Because you weren’t attentive.” Nate chews on his toast.
“I was.” Tristan’s jaw tightens. “It’s called multitasking. Ever heard of it?”
“Oh, you mean watching Ella on your phone?” Nate nods, pretending to consider it.
“Yeah, yeah, I’ve heard some people do that.
Weird ones, though. Real creepy.” I snap my fingers twice, cutting through the brotherly banter before Nate can keep poking Tristan, who steps in every trap he sets.
“Just kidding, you guys,” Nate says, chuckling as he lifts both hands in surrender.
“You’re perfect for each other. I’m just giving you shit to lighten the air.
” His smile turns kind. Tristan gives him a look sharp enough to cut bone, but I am already distracted by the books in his hands.
There are tabs inside them, dozens. Color-coded, neatly placed, peeling from the pages like little flags marking a battlefield.
Is this how he survived grief? By turning it into a strategy?
“How many times did you read it?”
“Um. I don’t know.”