XXXIII
Tori
Y ou’d think by now, I’d be used to Syn’s mood swings, but all I’m used to is their unpredictability. If there was ever a day when Syn would smile and enjoy himself, it was going to be his birthday.
He’s spent the whole day looking like he wants to murder someone.
But when he finally lets go and turns to look at me, I don’t see anger anymore. He actually seems almost distressed.
When I went to get the champagne, Royal told me that the guy Syn was just talking to was JP’s best friend, Preston du Pont. Syn’s reaction seems strange and has me wondering what Preston said to upset him.
I don’t ask him if he’s okay, or if he wants to talk about it. Even if I cared—which I don’t—I know Syn wouldn’t tell me anything. Instead, I walk to the driver’s seat of the golf cart and get in, starting it up as Syn sits beside me.
The few drinks I’ve had this evening aren’t enough to give me a decent buzz, and the openness of the golf cart has me shivering before we’ve even left the church. I had come wearing a coat, but I doubt Syn will let me go back in and get it.
The suit jacket he’s wearing offers more protection than the spaghetti straps of the short cocktail dress he provided me with this evening, but he still sits there like the snow and arctic breeze doesn’t affect him.
Then again, if you’ve got a lump of ice where your heart should be, you probably wouldn’t be affected by the cold temperatures either.
“Where do you want to go?” I ask as I drive us down the hill.
“Home,” he mutters.
The journey only takes about ten minutes, but by the time I’m parking up at the side of the house, I’m sure there’s a blue tinge to my fingers and toes. Syn doesn’t wait for me as he walks into the house, but as I hurry around the side of the building, rubbing my hands over my arms, I realize he’s left the front door open rather than making me walk all the way around to the back of the house.
Then again, it’s after what would be my curfew, so the back door is probably locked anyway.
Inside, I’m greeted by warmth that has my skin prickling as it turns bright red, but my body is still icy cold to the touch. More than anything, I want to head to my room and curl up in my bed to warm up, but I wait at the bottom of the stairs, watching Syn as he heads up.
It’s only when I hear his bedroom door close that I pull my strappy heels off and then run up to my room. I pull on thick socks, but before I can get changed into my pajamas, I decide to throw on a hoodie and go to run a bath.
As I reach my bathroom, my bedroom door opens, and Syn walks in. “Did I say you were dismissed? Go get me a drink.”
At least I managed to get an extra layer on…
I hurry back downstairs to the kitchen, heading straight for one of the cupboards in the house that contains the alcohol. Knowing Syn likes the Japanese whiskey, I grab the bottle of Yamazaki and a glass.
As I drop one of the large ice spheres Syn likes into a glass, I take a quick mouthful from the bottle. I’m not a fan of whiskey—even expensive stuff like this—but I can feel the burn of the amber liquid as it goes down my throat and into my stomach. Although I have to bite back a sputter, the effect is enough to take the edge off my chill.
After pouring a glass for Syn, I take it and the bottle, back upstairs. I knock on Syn’s door and then gently push it open. His room is empty. Frowning, I head back to mine, finding him at my window.
He doesn’t turn as I walk over to him, just takes the glass from me.
Although he doesn’t dismiss me, he also doesn’t make any move to leave my room. After a moment’s hesitation, I move over to my desk and set the bottle of Yamazaki down. “Do you need anything else, sir?”
“My brother.”
If I had a magic wand that could change everything, I’d use it in a heartbeat. Much as I don’t want my brother in prison, I also don’t want Syn without his either. Of course, I don’t tell him that. He’s so volatile, that I’m not sure there’s anything I could say that he’d believe anyway.
“Revenge.” He turns to look at me, but while his expression is guarded, he doesn’t seem like he’s about to explode…
But with him especially, looks can be deceptive.
“I want someone to feel the same pain and emptiness that I feel every fucking day.” Syn lifts the glass to his lips and pours the liquid down his throat.
I open my mouth, but at the last moment, stop myself from telling him that I understand.
Syn snorts. “You?” he says, as though I had spoken. “How is it even close to the same? My brother is dead. Yours isn’t even on death row.”
“Empathy,” I tell him. “My brother is alive, yes, but he’s been taken from my life. And of course, that’s not the same, but I know how much I miss him, so I can imagine how you feel.”
Eyes narrowing, Syn marches over, stopping in front of me. As I brace myself, he discards his glass on the desk beside me and snatches up the whiskey bottle. He yanks the top off, tossing it to the side, and then takes several large gulps directly from the bottle. “Go on then, Victoria Anderson. Tell me how it feels. Tell me how I feel when the sister of the man who murdered my brother is standing directly in front of me. Tell me how I feel when I have an opportunity to make him feel the pain I’m feeling, but instead, I’m being ordered to make you disappear.”
Fear ripples through me, but it keeps me rooted to the spot. “Someone ordered you to kill me?”
Syn’s dark eyes are locked on mine, then he breaks the stare with a shake of his head. “Not yet,” he mutters before he steps back and takes another drink. He moves over to my bed and sits down on the end of it, loosening his tie as he sips from the bottle.
I glance to the door, but instead of leaving, I stay where I am.
I’m not exactly sure what this weird mood is, or what caused it, but as long as Syn’s not actually trying to kill me, this could be an opportunity to maybe get some answers from him.
“Do you have the ability to make people—make me— disappear?” I ask.
Syn looks up at me, his eyes half hidden beneath his eyelashes. “If I was told to kill you, I would,” he tells me with no hesitation. “The only thing I wouldn’t enjoy is being able to tell your brother that I did to him what he did to me. Because, unlike him, I wouldn’t leave a body.”
His words leave a chill in me that make being outside feel like a warmer option. “Do you really think killing me will make you feel better?”
“It doesn’t matter, if I’m told to.”
“Who would tell you to do that though?” I ask. “Who would tell you to break the law?”
Syn takes another sip before leaning forward, resting his elbows on his thighs as he holds the bottle dangling between his legs. “Considering I’ve seen you with a dick stuffed in every hole, I know you’re not innocent, but are you really that na?ve? There are people in this world that follow the law, people who make it, and people who are so far above it, that you never want to meet them.” He laughs, but there’s no humor there. “You’ve already met some of them, and you have no fucking clue.”
My mouth is dry, and despite the fact that my heart is pounding, I walk over to Syn and take the bottle from him. He doesn’t stop me, only watches as I take a few mouthfuls.
“Do I know too much?”
My question makes Syn laugh again. “You?”
Before he can make another swipe at my intelligence, I narrow my eyes. “Someone wants me to disappear. Why?”
“And naturally, you think this is about you.” Syn rolls his eyes. “My life is planned out for me. In twenty years, I’ll be running this country. Having you here, that puts that future at risk.”
“How?” Maybe it’s the whiskey hitting me, but that doesn’t make sense.
“Because someone thinks I’m going to do something that will stop that from happening.”
“But that someone could also tell you to kill me? Don’t you think murder would stop that?”
Syn shrugs. “In this country, I doubt it anymore. But you wrongly assume someone would find out. I might kill you, but I also have access to resources that mean you’d never be linked back to me.”
“People know I’m here, and they know why.”
There’s something about what he’s saying that sounds crazy. That, really, he needs help—professional help. And yet, I don’t doubt him. I can feel the fear pounding through my blood, and yet I also know—right now, at least—he’s not going to kill me.
But that doesn’t make him any less dangerous.
“You mean Penny Bergmann? Your only friend who might just be so distraught at you dying that she’d take her own life? Or that she’s so upset, she forgets one time to look both ways before crossing a road.”
“Penny hasn’t done anything to you,” I whisper. The whiskey sits in my stomach like lead.
Syn gets up, stalking over to me. As I flinch, he snatches the bottle back. “But don’t worry. I’d make your death look like a suicide, so as long as your little bestie doesn’t go running her mouth, she’d be fine.” He takes a sip, staring down at me as he does.
Then I’m laughing. “You might want to consider a career in writing if the White House doesn’t pan out.”
A small smile appears on Syn’s face. “You think I’m making it up.”
I shrug. “I think Synclair Keyingham wouldn’t blindly follow orders like that.”
“That’s because you have no idea who’s issuing them. Because when they tell you to do something, you do it. With no questions asked.”
There’s no doubt that Syn is dangerous, but only because he’s delusional. No one has that much influence, and Syn might be obscenely rich, but even he doesn’t have access to that much power. If he wants to kill me, he will. He’ll just do so believing someone told him to do it, or he’ll use that excuse for an insanity plea.
Before I can react, his arm shoots out, grabbing the end of the collar that hangs over my dress. I’m so used to that being there, that I didn’t think about it. I didn’t even think to zip my hoodie up to hide it.
“Syn, let go,” I tell him, as he pulls it just enough to tighten against my throat.
“You’re not the only one wearing one of these.” His gaze drifts from the metal in his hands, following the chain to my neck, then up to meet my eyes. “The only difference is that yours is visible.”
“Syn, please let go.”
He tilts his head. “Do you regret coming here, Victoria Reynalds? Did you get the answers you were looking for? Did you find the evidence to prove your brother is innocent?” Syn isn’t pulling the chain hard enough to choke me, but there’s enough pressure on my throat to feel the point he’s making. “Are you ready to accept that your brother is just another cold-blooded killer?”
Maybe I am the idiot Syn thinks I am, because instead of just agreeing, I shake my head. “Cole didn’t kill anyone.”
Syn’s eyes narrow. “Even now, you still blindly believe that? When there isn’t a shred of evidence to prove otherwise?”
Anger bubbles inside of me. “I might not have all the answers, but I do have one,” I tell him. It has to be the alcohol that’s clouding my judgement, and my ability to bite my tongue. “Because all this time, I’ve been wondering how you could just believe that he’s guilty, when it turns out, you don’t question anyone . You just blindly follow orders. Did you ever ask?”
“Ask what?” The chain tightens a fraction. “Ask if he was guilty? Doubt your brothers own words?”
“Ask how? Why? For the details?”
“Why the fuck would I want the details?” In one quick movement, Syn wraps the chain around his fist, jerking me forward.
I squeal, stumbling towards him, my hands wrapping around Syn’s to both stop me from falling, but also to try to stop him from pulling.
“You think I want to know exactly how much pain my brother was in when he was killed? If that blow was enough to kill him outright, or if he lay there, praying for help, in pain, before finally dying? Pain might be your kink, but I’m not a fucking masochist.”
“No,” I gasp. “But all those details aren’t even there. There wasn’t even a murder weapon. The only reason my brother is in prison is because he confessed, but if he’d have kept quiet, there would have been so little evidence that a jury would never have been able to convict him.”
Syn seems to freeze, and the silence is almost as terrifying as the glare he’s giving me. The chain around my neck doesn’t loosen and black dots are starting to dance over my vision. Before I can pass out, I bring my knee up, straight into his balls. Instantly, Syn lets go of me, crying out in pain as he clutches his hands over his crotch.
I stumble back, out of his reach, only to walk into my desk. “Maybe it’s time you started asking questions, Syn, starting with what JP did to deserve to die. Because Cole has never been able to say why he did it, and from everything you’ve said, it’s starting to sound more like someone else killed JP, and then framed my brother to get away with it.”
“You think my brother deserved to die?”
That wasn’t what I meant, but Syn’s face is growing redder and his breathing shallower, and I don’t think it’s from the pain. He straightens, fists clenched.
I know that I’ve only got a second and that’s not enough time to explain what I mean—even if he were to listen—but it’s not fear that drives me. It’s anger.
In one fluid motion, I reach out, grab the half-full bottle of Japanese whiskey, and then spin with enough force to make Syn stumble as the bottle hits him, but not quite enough to smash it over him.
Whiskey drips everywhere as I stare down at Syn, clutching his head. “Maybe that will knock some fucking sense into you. No, I don’t think your brother deserved to die. But it’s time you started asking some fucking questions, because if you did, you’d see that nothing adds up.”
Dropping the bottle, I turn, storm out of the room, and down the stairs. It’s only when I’m at the bottom and my anger breaks just enough for me to realize what I’ve just done. Although he’s probably in pain, and at best, a little stunned, I doubt I’ve done enough to stop Syn from chasing after me. Not physically, at least. At the bottom of the stairs, I pause long enough to stick my feet into a pair of Royal’s running shoes, then I leave.
Syn doesn’t follow.
With any luck, he’s finally listening to what I’ve said.