44. Liam
LIAM
Pierre D’Aboville’s claim checks out. He was Edward Mercer’s butler.
Helena hasn’t answered my call. I phoned late, and it’s barely dawn in New York. I tell myself that’s the reason. Because I need to speak to her—about what I found, and about the way I handled the other day. I let it hit a nerve, that’s not how I operate.
I’m back on the phone with Max. He’s been up for hours.
“So that butler is coming with the will?” he asks. “That means what we found about Edward Mercer wasn’t smoke then.”
“It’s real.” I watch the rain stripe the windows, fogging my view of the Seine. “Assuming he shows up with the paperwork. He’s not due for another three hours.”
“Anything you want me to do while you wait?”
I drag a hand over my face. “Can you head down to Carroll Gardens?” I ask.
“You’re still worried about Rochemont?”
“Just make sure she’s okay. She’s not answering.”
Max chuckles. “You want me to work my magic this time?”
“You’re still in her good graces. Use it.”
“This isn’t just about Victor, is it? Come on, Liam. You’ve got something real with her. Don’t torch it because you’re just suspicious.”
“I wasn’t wrong to be suspicious,” I say. “But I handled it like shit. We talked, and it blew up.”
“What kind of talk?”
“The kind where you realize you might not be the man you thought you were.”
That quiets him.
“Liam.”
“I asked her something,” I continue. “And when I saw her face…I hated myself for even thinking it.”
Max doesn’t press. He waits.
“It all came out wrong. I asked her if she was pregnant. When I was last with her, I made a decision and I don’t regret it. I knew the consequences and I thought I was prepared for it.”
“Is she pregnant?”
“No. And I’m not relieved or anything. It makes me feel like shit if anything. I’m afraid of what I’m capable of,” I say finally.
“You’re reaching for the worst-case version of yourself.”
“More than that.” I turn away from the window, pacing. “I don’t want to be him, Max.”
“Our father.”
“You remember how Mom would look at us before he came in? Like she was warning us without saying it.”
Max doesn’t interrupt.
“I don’t want to love a woman and slowly turn her into that,” I add.
“You won’t.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I do.” His voice is firm now. “You’re scared of becoming him. That already puts you miles away.”
“But what if I turn the woman I love into our mother?”
“You won’t,” Max affirms. “Helen isn’t built that way. She’s strong. You know that.”
“What if I’m stronger?” I shoot back. “What if I push and she backs down because she loves me?”
He doesn’t answer.
“At The Gallows,” I continue, “you asked me what if she chose someone else. I told you I wouldn’t let that happen. I said I wouldn’t let her choose, Max. I meant it. I would’ve done anything to make sure she ended up in my arms.”
Max exhales. “It was a game.”
“That’s control,” I say in finality.
“Liam, you invited her knowing where she stood. She walked in on her own. That’s not you stripping her of choice. That’s two people wanting each other.”
I fall silent and look at my watch. “Anyway, please check on her.”
“Sure,” he agrees. “Just not at five in the morning. I’d like to stay on her good side.”
“Fine.”
I stare at my phone for a moment longer, then set an alarm for two hours. New York will be awake by then. So will she.
And Pierre should be on his way.
I stretch out on the bed without bothering to undress. My mind keeps replaying the conversation I had with Helena, and the look on her face.
I close my eyes anyway.
The alarm sounds and I’m awake instantly. I push up, splash cold water over my face, straighten my tie, smooth my jacket. I didn’t need sleep. I needed time to pass.
Pierre should be here any minute.
Behind me, the television switches from morning chatter to something urgent. I glance over, distracted by the image of police tape lining a riverbank.
“A body was discovered early this morning in the Seine,” the anchor says. “The deceased has been identified as Pierre D’Aboville who was just released out of prison…”
My pulse slams against my ribs.
I call my brother, already packing. “Get to her. Now.”
“Okay. Okay. I’m on my way.”
“Don’t let her out of your sight. I’m wheels up in thirty.”
I end the call and dial my pilot.
The rain keeps falling over Paris, calm and oblivious. But someone just eliminated a sixty-year-old man who was supposed to be knocking on my door. If they took the will, they’re still missing the key.
Helena.