Chapter 17
CHAPTER
SEVENTEEN
Manon’s invitation comes in the early morning, atop a silver platter carried by none other than Claudette.
Her gaze squints almost imperceptibly as they flit over my shoulder, to the rearranged furniture and my mattress squished up against the parted door. I simply raise an eyebrow and retrieve the cream-colored envelope, shutting and locking the door without a word.
Catching my reflection in the foyer’s mirror, I grimace.
Tangled, white-blonde hair frames a pallor face decorated with shadows.
I’d gotten maybe an hour or two of sleep, having spent the remaining adrenaline from the early morning heist creeping around the exterior of our room and installing surveillance.
Pinhole cameras wouldn’t nearly be as high-definition as the abandoned equipment at the Baudelaire residence.
They won’t have audio, either. Not that Graham left us with much of a choice.
I’m scowling at the envelope between my fingers when the man himself appears from his bedroom. There’s no writing, only a thick wax seal stamped with some sort of symbol. Upon closer inspection, it looks to be a dandelion, the seeds blowing away in the wind.
“Manon works quick,” I mutter without glancing at him.
He easily slips it from my hold, which is when I realize he’s in slacks with no shirt.
“Hey!” I shout, blocking the view of his chest with my hand. “Have some respect for my stomach, I haven’t eaten!”
Graham sends me a flat look. It’s hard not to notice the flex of his shoulders as he crosses his arms. I’m not dead, after all. The man’s in good shape. “I’ve yet to receive any complaints from the opposite sex,” he replies.
“Where can I file one formally? For your records?”
He scoffs. “You kill people for a living, you’re not a nun.”
“Well, that is categorically false,” I quip, dropping my hand before remembering its original purpose. It’s too late by the time I reposition it. The image has imprinted on my mind, and I’m a little disturbed at the lack of revulsion that should be churning through my gut.
“What? That you’re not a nun?” Graham tilts his head and pretends to study me. “I believe there’s a commandment about murder—don’t they frown on that?”
An uncomfortable sensation crawls up my spine. “I don’t murder,” I reply, even though the words taste strange on my tongue. “I protect innocence.” When he doesn’t make a witty remark for several seconds, I stand straighter and say, “Why are you staring at me like that?”
He shrugs a shoulder. “I believe you. Or rather, I believe that you believe what you’re saying.”
At this point, I’m too angry to keep my hand suspended in the air between us. “I imagine you find it easy to make judgments from a stolen high horse.”
“Clever.” Graham taps his chin. “Although, I seem to recall a recent dinner funded by stolen money.”
“Not stolen,” I lie.
“Of course not—I imagine it’s rather easy to get by when you’re the one making all the rules.”
“What would you know about getting by? You were born into a lap of luxury, with all the options in the world at your fingertips,” I continue, unable to stop the swelling tide urging me forward.
“Imagine that: you could’ve picked anything—anything—and you willingly chose a life of crime. But I’m the one that you look down on?”
Graham’s impassive expression falters. “Be careful. You’ve made quite the number of assumptions there, Agent.”
“It’s not my job to deal in assumptions.”
“No, only hidden agendas dressed up as altruism.”
My chin tips up. “That’s a lot of big words for an Eton College dropout. Are you sure you know what they mean?”
“You’ve done your research—I’m flattered,” he says with a smile, but it doesn’t reach his eyes this time.
We stare at each other for what feels like minutes, the air thick and strained as if it’s a spring stretched beyond its limit, never able to return to what it was. I fight against the urge to ask him why.
Why won’t he leave it alone? Why does it feel like he’s been trying to tell me something?
I can’t ask him, and I won’t, because I don’t care what he has to say.
He embodies everything I’ve been trained to hate since I was fourteen—people who have no regard for right and wrong, people that think they’re somehow above the law.
Nonviolent offenders like Graham believe they’re not hurting anyone.
In reality, though, their flippant attitude feeds and supports a structure that preys on those who can’t protect themselves.
I’d know that better than most.
Rules. Laws. Orders. They exist for a reason.
A familiar pair of amber eyes flash through my memory unbidden, and I have to squeeze my own shut to recalibrate. What about him? My mind whispers. So quick to forget.
Graham’s already looked away and begun ripping into the envelope when I open my eyes. The atmosphere has changed again—shifted, weighed down by whatever’s steadily mounting between us.
He rubs his freshly-shaven jaw. “Manon requests our presence at her home… this afternoon.”
“Good for her,” I reply. “But that’s not why we’re here—the Consultant’s not going to pay us any interest if he thinks we’re a couple honeymooning in Paris and visiting your family. Stealing a painting then leaving it behind it isn’t going to win us any points, either. The plan is still the same.”
“But first we must see Alban,” he mutters, completely ignoring me.
“That’s a real person?”
Graham glances at me, as if remembering he’s not alone. “Yes, and it would be wise to source your ring from him since we already told my sister we’d be visiting him.”
“You,” I correct miserably, “you told Manon.”
“Have you ever seen the painting Checkmate by Moritz Retzsch?”
My brows pull together. Any lingering frustration subsides as I stare at him like he’s sprouted wings. “I didn’t get to it,” I reply.
Tapping the envelope against his palm, his face takes on a far-off look while he draws a long breath.
“It depicts the story of a young man playing a game of chess for his soul, and his opponent is the Devil. He’s losing, of course, and Retzsch beautifully captures the utter despair that this young fellow is feeling as he pours over the chess board, desperate for a way out. ”
The wistful shine in his eyes makes me frown. “Is this another story about something you’ve stolen?”
“Hardly. It’s owned by a colleague of mine.” Graham’s gaze darts back to my own with a mischievous smile. “All above board, of course.”
“I’m struggling to see the connection.”
He leans backward against the doorframe to his room.
“There’s a crucial difference in our careers that you must understand.
” I hold back my eye roll at his use of the word career, eager to get to the point.
“You are given information, and a directive, and you’re told where and how to accomplish it.
There must be a degree of improvisation for you, I’m sure—but for the most part, the ISA… points you,” he explains.
I cross my arms. He’s essentially hinted at me being a tool. And I can’t tell if I’m annoyed by the description, or the fact that it’s uncomfortably accurate.
“There is a great deal of… putting together puzzles in my line of work,” he says.
“You mean finding ways to break the law,” I correct.
“Sure.” A smirk lifts the corner of his mouth. “But I’ve only been caught once.”
“Once is all it takes, I believe.”
Graham ignores me. “Working alone, as well, means I must think on my feet. Everyone’s an opponent when there’s no one there to watch your back.”
That life almost sounds lonelier than my own.
“It’s like a game of chess, Sloane—” His casual use of my name, and not Agent, does something strange to my chest. “—one that I’ve won time and time again.
I could never understand the man in Retzsch’s painting, because I would never put myself in such a situation.
Yet, if I did, I would come out the victor. ”
I can’t help the laugh of disbelief. “That’s quite the claim.”
Graham advances on me suddenly, and I step backwards, but my legs hit one of the rearranged couches.
The frenzy in his eyes isn’t one of violence.
It’s as if he’s spontaneously awoken from a coma.
“We must begin thinking three steps ahead—five if we can manage it.” His voice dips at the same time that he draws even nearer. “Do you understand my meaning?”
“You’ve been speaking in riddles since I met you, Graham,” I reply as calmly as I can manage in the situation.
He huffs out a sigh, casting my hair in a frenzy across my neck. It’s the second time we’ve been this close. I should push him away. Why haven’t I pushed him away?
“Do you trust me?” he asks.
“Not in the slightest.”
He seems to consider my response for a long second. “That will have to do for now.”
“I’m still back at the painting,” I reply.
Graham studies my face in a way that sends goosebumps erupting down my spine. “We are Retzsch’s young man, Agent.” Then he steps away and waves with the envelope. “And we will be attending my sister’s tea today—it’s the next maneuver in this game.”
“I’m pretty sure I have no idea what you mean.”
He turns and starts back for his room, pausing at the doorway and glancing over his shoulder.
“It means you’re in my world now.”