TWENTY-EIGHT
“But the shot itself wasn’t fatal…I mean it didn’t hit arteries or organs or anything?” Sylvie asks, she’d been asking questions constantly since we started the tour, mostly the same things on repeat, like she needs the answer drummed into her before she believes it.
Did I see who’d done it?
Did the Tower have security cameras?
Did Tom tell me why he was there?
Did he say who shot him?
Were there signs of a struggle?
Did they find the gun?
Do the surgeons think he is going to die?
“No, but he was lucky. Being shot twice and surviving when any of those bullets could have caused irreparable damage…lucky doesn’t even cover it. If the bullet in his chest had gone a little more to the left, it could have hit his heart. Honestly, I’m surprised it wasn’t worse.”
“That’s the truth.” Sylvie stares into the distance, her eyes narrow in thought. Tom seems important to her; if important means verging on obsessed. She asks me everything; from what I’d overheard, to what it felt like to touch another person’s insides. For a delicate, well-bred young woman, she has a twisted fascination with the macabre. She stares me right in the eye the whole time, hanging on every word.
Sylvie directs me to a lawn of thick grass in a pool of sunlight. She takes off her shoes and pads to the middle of the glowing circle. Sitting, she stretches her legs and leans back on her arms. I sit beside her, keeping a wary distance between us. She tilts her head back and hums contentedly as she soaks up the rays.
A long—though not unpleasant—silence hangs between us, until, with her eyes still closed, Sylvie asks a question I’m not expecting.
“I heard he was there to deliver mail? Like a letter or something?”
“Really?” I quit yanking at tufts of long grass to look at her. She glances at me quickly, possibly trying to read my reactions, then looks away. She staring up at the clouds as though dreamily watching them pass overhead, but her body is anything but relaxed. She’s coiled tight and deliberately avoiding my eye for the first time since leaving the house.
“Have you told Dax?” I ask. “That sounds like something he should know. Did someone tell you, or is it a rumour?”
“Just gossip,” she dismisses. “It’s easy to pick things up if you listen to the right people.” Her words aren’t casual or even coincidental. They’re pointed. Could she have seen me on the staircase? Does she know I overheard Ben and Frank? Forgetting that, how could she even know about the letter? Is it openly gossiped about at the compound? The only people who know about it are Tom, Dax, Ben, Aiden, and me. I haven’t said anything about it. Tom is still in a coma, and I doubt Dax mentioned it to anyone. Hell, since everything happened, Aiden and Dax have been glued to my side, which only leaves Ben.
Why doesn’t that surprise me?
Prickles form along my arms and I glance up to find Sylvie watching me a little too closely. I try to relax, shrugging my shoulders and pitching a regretful wince in her direction.
“Honestly,” I begin, “I have no idea. All I know is I got caught up in an unholy mess and would really like for my life to go back to the way it was.”
“You would? I’d have thought you’d be relieved to be out of the Vale?” The comment is innocent enough, or it would be if it hadn’t been delivered maliciously and accompanied by an intelligent glare.
I ignore the attitude and correct her assumption. “The Vale isn’t the problem. It’s the people who run the Vale that make it a problem.”
“Well, it’s a problem Dax is determined to fix.” She doesn’t sound happy about it.
Still, something in the way she looks at me, something in her narrowed eyes and in the sneer disguised as a smile, says she means something else.
“What are you suggesting? I can see you’re driving at something. Just say it.”
“That maybe he plans on starting his humanitarian cause by saving you.” There it is. That tone only true bitches can pull off, that mean girl tone that makes you question whether they are being mean or nice. It’s a subtle, sweet attack where every word sticks. They eat away at you like a slow rot for hours until you finally understand how badly you’re hurt. Only by then it’s too late to fight back.
Sylvie’s clearly an expert, but I’ve learned from the best that words wielded as weapons can be used for attack and defence.
“You look concerned, Sylvie. I’m nobody’s charity case. He could burn every penny he owns in any of the useless fireplaces in that ostentatious building, and I wouldn’t blink an eye. In fact, the sooner I get away from here, the better,” I admit.
“Well, it would be my money on fire, but it’s good to know you won’t embarrass yourself trying to seduce him for my inheritance. You wouldn’t get far.”
A gold digger?She’s insinuating I’m a gold digger and a whore. The complete turnaround she just pulled is both shocking and impressive. Clearly, having mined all the info she wanted, she no longer gives a damn about how she insults me.
“Trust me, I wouldn’t degrade myself for money. I leave that to the social climbers and debutantes. I earn my way.” I stand up and brush the broken blades of grass from my lap. “It was nice of you to show your true colours. It saves us the effort of feigning a friendship. I think we’re done here.” My ears are ringing with fury as I walk back to the house. I want to say so much more. I want to grab her by her ink-black air and make her eat dirt, but I’m not Eric’s daughter.
I refuse to stoop so low.
I’ve spent my whole life looking at my feet; I want to hold my head up.
By now my washing will need drying and as soon as that’s done—as soon as I have my own clothes on my back—I’m getting out of here. Charlie’s rescue offer rings in my ears. I hate the idea of owing anyone, but I’m going to need to call on that favour.
Sylvie can go fuck herself and Dax too, for that matter.
I hear Dax talking with others as I pass the boardroom. I don’t look in. I don’t need to annoy myself by seeing his smug face. Instead, I make my way straight to the apartment and yank on the handle, only to find the blasted thing locked.
Biting back the scream building in my throat, I knock on the other door— the one that houses the security team. A tall man dressed in black suit trousers and a black shirt opens the door. He looks down at me and cocks his brow. Nothing else moves on his face…not even a twitch. I can tell he trained with Aiden.
“Can I help you?”
“The apartment door is locked. I need to get upstairs and dry my laundry.” That brings a hint of a smile to his face, not that I can see what’s so funny. He lifts his hand to his ear and speaks into the small silver cufflink at the wrist.
“Are you kidding me? I thought those things were fake and for television only?” He shakes his head, white teeth glistening as he laughs openly, then taps the ear bud he’s holding.
“Oh.”
“Sir, Miss Girard wishes to dry her laundry.”
Who?Doesn’t he know who I am? I open my mouth to correct him. Feelan, Juliet Feelan. And then I click. Girard is Carlo’s surname.
My real name is Joslyn Girard. It’s strange just saying it in my head, no matter hearing it out loud. It sounds good though, less harsh than Feelan but it also separates me from my brothers, removes me from my past, and alienates me from the people I’ve thought of as mine over the years.
While my new name plays in my head on repeat, Dax appears by my side, looking far less amused than the still sniggering guard.
“Where’s Sylvie? Why aren’t you with her?” he barks. My defences fly up again. Dax’s waspish attitude puts me straight back on my feet and in familiar territory: defending myself.
“Ask her. Can you let me in, please?” He walks to the door, inserts the key, and turns it. With a click, it opens. Holding the door wide for me to enter, he dominates the space between the door and the frame, forcing me to brush past him. An echo of the power-play Eric likes to use.
“Keep your phone on you at all times,” he grumbles, his fingers brushing mine as I squeeze by. I don’t bother responding. I climb the steps, keeping my eyes straight ahead, and when he slams the door behind me, I tell myself I don’t care. Well…not much.
He’s right, though, if I had the phone, I could have just called him myself. Not that I wanted him to interfere at all, but if the guards don’t have access to the apartment, then Dax is my only choice—or Sylvie, but after our conversation, she is a solid no.
A serene apartment awaits. I appreciate the quiet all the more because swapping out the washing to the twin dryer is an exercise in frustration release. I slam, kick, grumble, cuss, and damn near ruin my clothes, but by the time the tumbler rolls and hums, I laugh; bent double over the machine with my head buried in a fluffy midnight-blue towel. My laughter transforms from an uneasy chuckle to a maniacal cackle. Tears edge into my eyes—a combined overflow of desperation and incredulity. I pull myself up to a standing position before they take hold, and my laughter becomes a crying jag.
I’d not heard the door opening over the sound of my hysterics, so when I turn to leave and find him blocking the exit—his hands on his hips, and a face like thunder—I have no choice but to retreat into the back of the room.
“What…what are you doing in here?” I stutter.
Ben closes the gap between us, taking up a dominating position in the centre of the room. “What did you hear?” he asks, eyes raking me from hair to heel.
I keep my lips shut. I pinch them together so hard, numbness blooms.
“The sooner you answer me, the sooner I leave you alone,” he sneers, sounding too much like Dax.
“Why are you asking?”
“Why do you think? I’ve been watching you, Jules. You’re a smart girl, so don’t play coy now. It is a waste of both our time.”
“Be more specific. What do you mean, ‘What did I hear?’” I snap the words at him. His lip pulls up with scorn as he tilts his head to the side to watch me. I straighten my back and cross my arms. He’s no different to those losers on bikes.
I’ll be okay, plus Dax said he has cameras in all the public places. Except, there are no tell-tale black dots on the ceiling in here.
Ben follows the direction of my gaze. “No cameras, Jules, but good thinking. I knew you were a smart girl.”
If there’s no chance of a rescue or, at least, an audience, then I’ll have to bluff my way out. “Whatever. You still need to explain what you want me to tell you.”
“You need me to clarify which conversation you eavesdropped on?”
I blanch. He knows about earlier. His grin widens.
“Your blonde hair is distinctive, Jules. I saw you dart into the boardroom, but don’t worry, I didn’t tell Frank. He’ll have you shipped out of here in an instant for less. So, you see, I really am trying to help you out. Now, What. Did. You. Overhear?”
“Enough to know you’re hiding something, but not enough to know what that something is,” I admit. I also know enough to suspect him of being the mole, or worse, the person who shot Tom. My heart races with the danger of both possibilities.
“That’s all I need to hear. You should think yourself lucky. Ignorance truly is bliss in this case.” His expression falls. His eyes take on the far-off haze of longing, before he glances up again and his expression washes clean; blank and uncaring. “You don’t belong here. You should leave.” Is he warning me or threatening me? And if it is a threat, why not just neutralise me while he has the opportunity?
I can’t figure it out, so I play along instead. “I plan on it. I’m sick of being threatened and cajoled into doing things. Still, I don’t know if you noticed, but I have a truckload of assholes after me because of you and Tom. Whatever crap you two were pulling in Olive Tower has landed me in the shit. So maybe you owe me some answers?”
“You really don’t need to get in any deeper than you already are.” His hand reaches for the slide lock, he pulls it back and opens the door. A cool breeze of air wafts in, buffeting against the heat pumped out by the still tumbling dryer. “Don’t kick the hornets’ nest, Jules…” he warns, staring me in the eye, challenging me to look away first, but I’m too afraid to look away. “You have no idea how badly they sting.”
He saunters out of the room, leaving me standing with my back to the wall. By the time I pull myself together and step into the kitchen, he’s gone, and I’ve learned something new about myself.
I’m smart enough to want to leave, but stubborn enough to stay and figure out what the hell is going on.