Chapter 21 #2
Kara glanced at me again, and this time her right eye closed in a quick, subtle wink before her face resumed its mask of professional detachment. The gesture was so fast I almost thought I'd imagined it.
She disappeared back into the foyer. Moments later, the front door opened and closed again.
I sat with my knife hovering over the strawberry, listening to the sudden quiet of the house. Just Ellie and me now, the soft sizzle of butter in the pan, and the distant sound of a cat purring somewhere in the living room.
Ellie stacked our breakfast dishes in the dishwasher, wiping down the counter with methodical strokes. The scent of cinnamon and maple lingered in the air.
"I need to check the perimeter monitors," she said, tucking a stray loc behind her ear. "You good here for a bit?"
I nodded, watching the way her lips curved into that easy smile. Something fluttered in my chest when she laughed at my lame joke about French toast being the universal language of peace negotiations.
When she left, I realized it was my first time alone downstairs. The silence felt strange after days of constant supervision. I tested my weight on my ankle and made my way through the foyer.
Beyond the staircase, I discovered a great room I hadn't seen before. Floor-to-ceiling windows revealed a solarium that jutted out from the main structure, filled with plants that reached toward the glass ceiling. I pushed open the connecting door and stepped into a wall of humid heat.
The temperature shift was immediate and total. Sweat prickled along my hairline as moisture settled on my skin like a second layer. The air tasted green, if that made any sense—thick with chlorophyll and earth and something sweet I couldn't identify.
Exotic flowers I couldn't name bloomed in riots of color.
Purple petals the size of dinner plates cascaded from hanging baskets.
Scarlet blooms with waxy leaves clustered near the glass, catching the pale winter light and transforming it into something tropical.
Broad-leafed plants created a canopy overhead, their fronds so large they could have sheltered me from rain.
Outside the glass, bare tree branches swayed in what looked like a bitter wind, skeletal fingers clawing at a grey sky. But in here, I could have been in some jungle paradise, miles and continents away from upstate New York in January.
I traced my finger along a leaf as wide as my torso, feeling the smooth waxy surface, the raised veins beneath. My ankle throbbed less in the warmth, the heat loosening something in the joint that had stayed tense and tight since my fall.
Someone had poured considerable time into this space.
The plants were too exotic, too meticulously maintained to be accidental.
I thought of the poetry volumes in the library, Isabella Bellante's name inscribed inside each one.
Had this been her sanctuary too? I couldn't imagine Alex or the tactical team spending evenings misting orchids.
How strange to find this lush paradise inside a fortress designed to house killers.
Back in the great room, I scanned the built-in bookshelves. My fingers trailed across leather spines until I found a worn copy of Les Misérables. I pulled it free, considering. Rebecca waited upstairs on my nightstand, but the thought of climbing those stairs made my ankle throb in anticipation.
I limped back to the living room and eased into the wingchair by the fireplace. The box of kittens near my feet rustled with tiny movements. One bold calico poked its head over the edge, watching me with suspicious blue eyes.
This didn't feel like captivity anymore. Not exactly. But I couldn't name what it was becoming—this strange limbo where I felt both protected and trapped, cared for and controlled.
I opened the book, letting Hugo's words wash over me while the kittens mewled softly at my feet.
Days blurred together. Two? Three? Time felt elastic here.
I measured days by the weight of Les Misérables in my hands, by how many pages I'd turned since breakfast. The kittens became my secondary clock—bolder in their play, steadier on their paws, their tiny bodies filling out with proper food and care.
I'd reached the section where Javert first began his relentless pursuit of Jean Valjean.
The inspector's single-minded obsession reminded me of my own investigative work—that tunnel vision when you knew you were close to something big.
I wondered if anyone was still chasing the Bellante story, or if my disappearance had killed the momentum.
Probably the former. Surely Mark wouldn't have let the story die in my absence.
Slowly, my ankle improved enough that I could walk without wincing.
The sickly yellow-green color was fading, the swelling almost completely gone.
I ventured more often to the solarium, where the humid air wrapped around me like a blanket while I read about Fantine's desperation and Valjean's redemption.
The grey kitten had claimed me as her preferred human. She followed me from room to room on increasingly steady legs, mewing pitifully if I moved too fast for her to keep up. I'd find her curled in my lap within minutes of sitting down anywhere, her purr a constant vibration against my thigh.
Meals took on a rhythm. Ellie humming while she cooked. Kara arriving precisely three minutes before food was served. Cam silently setting the table with military precision. Alex appearing last, her eyes sweeping the room before she sat.
"Pass the salt," became familiar words in my mouth. "More wine?" no longer felt like a question I had no right to ask.
Evenings brought us to the living room, the news droning while Cam cleaned her weapons and Kara reviewed security logs. Ellie usually worked on some craft project, her fingers never still. Alex sat apart, her laptop casting blue shadows across her face.
I found myself watching them all, memorizing their habits. The way Ellie tucked her locs behind her ear when concentrating. How Kara always checked the locks twice before bed. Cam's silent nod when relieving someone from watch.
No one tried to kill me. No one came for me. The world outside continued without me, and I found myself breathing easier each night, the knot between my shoulders loosening incrementally with every uneventful sunset.
It was almost possible to forget why I was here. Almost possible to pretend this was just an extended vacation in a Gothic mansion with four beautiful, dangerous women and a family of cats.
Almost.
Dinner was unexpectedly normal. Ellie had made comfort food: spaghetti with marinara and garlic bread.
Kara and Ellie were arguing about basketball when Alex slipped into the dining room and took her usual seat at the head of the table. The argument was light, good-natured—something about whether the Knicks or the Celtics had any chance this season.
"The Celtics haven't been relevant in years," Kara said, gesturing with her fork, a rare animation lighting her usually stoic features.
"Please," Ellie shot back, reaching for her wine glass. "Like the Knicks have room to talk. They’ve been rebuilding since I was in high school."
“That recent?” Kara raised an eyebrow, and Ellie flicked a breadcrumb at her.
I hid my smile behind my napkin. It struck me as surreal, watching these women bicker about basketball statistics like college roommates instead of the highly trained operatives they were.
Under the table, the kittens tumbled over my feet, batting at shoelaces and each other with equal enthusiasm.
I almost missed it when Cam leaned toward Alex, her voice barely audible beneath Kara and Ellie’s debate. “What about the Scorpions?"
The room went silent so abruptly I heard the candle flames sputter in a draft. Kara's fork stilled halfway to her mouth. Ellie's eyes cut to Alex, all playfulness gone from her expression. Even the kittens seemed to sense the shift, their play pausing for a heartbeat.
Alex took a slow sip of her wine before answering, her voice carefully neutral. "As far as I know, there aren't any in this area." Her tone was neutral, but her knuckles whitened around the stem of her glass.
I frowned, confused. Scorpions? In upstate New York? In winter?
Then my brain caught up. Not actual scorpions. The Scorpions.
The name surfaced from months of research, journal entries cross-referenced with police reports. Lorenzo Bellante's personal enforcement crew. The elite killers. They were the crew who handled problems that needed to disappear permanently. Each marked with a scorpion tattoo on their collarbone.
Just like the one Alex wore.
My appetite vanished. I set down my fork carefully, trying not to let my hand shake.
Alex's eyes flicked to me, something unreadable passing through them before she looked away.
"Pass the bread, please," she said.
Kara handed it over without a word. The conversation didn't resume. We finished dinner in near silence, the only sounds the scrape of forks against plates and the evening news playing softly in the background.
A shrill ring cut through the silence, making me flinch. The sound came from the command room, electronic and insistent. An alarm?
Alex pushed back from the table. "That's for me." She walked out without another word, her footsteps fading down the hall.
I froze with my fork halfway to my mouth. A phone? They had told me repeatedly that no outside communications were allowed. Protocol, they had said. Security measures.
My gaze darted between the remaining women. Cam continued eating as if nothing had happened. Kara exchanged a quick glance with Ellie, whose fingers tapped a nervous rhythm against her water glass.
My stomach tightened. The marinara sauce suddenly tasted metallic on my tongue. Something wasn't right here.