“And if he sees?”
“Then I’m going to have to kick his arse instead. I’d rather not give him or Franz the heads up that we were here or that we know what they’re doing. We need time to put everything in place. If Franz gets an inkling that we know about his deal or where we are, he’ll come at us head on.”
“Okay.”
He holds out the phone and I take it with a little lurch of sadness. It was never really mine, but it feels like I’m surrendering yet another part of myself to Eric Feelan.
Just like Dax said, Eric is facing the door, his eyes glued to the flecking white paint as if he expects us to walk back in at any moment. I edge around the frame and hold still to see if he picked up on the movement. He doesn’t budge. I’d think the TV was on, except the entire place is thick with tension. It’s so quiet inside that you can clearly hear the yelling neighbours and baby screaming three doors down. The steady rattle of the elevator rolling up and down the shaft is also discernible. We’ll have to use the stairs if we manage to get out.
I edge down the hall toward Mum and Eric’s room. It’s the furthest away and the door opens left to right, which makes it less likely to be seen.
Inside, the room is a mess. The bedsheets are splayed across the floor, the mattress is old and musty and makes the room smell of sweat and dirt. I don’t know how Mum slept in here. I wonder if sleeping with Carlo made it easier to bear?
The phone goes on the sill, and I get the hell out of there before I let either the room or the fear choke me. Outside, I risk another glance at Eric. Only his arm has moved, probably from lifting the bottle to his mouth as he waits for his boys to be delivered. His eyes are closed now. He won’t be asleep. He’ll be thinking. Most likely of the shit he’s thrown us into. Bastard will revel in his cruelty.
Dax pulls me back into my bedroom.
“Can you manage the bags until we get outside the apartment?” he mouths more than whispers. I nod in response. I planned on doing this myself, anyway, burned hands or not. He points for me to stand beside them and get ready, then pulls out his phone with one hand and gently closes over my bedroom door with the other.
A harsh buzzing erupts down the hall, followed by an obnoxiously loud digital ringtone. We’re both silent as Eric storms past us and into the bedroom.
“Go!” Dax swings open my door. I grab the bags and haul them in a straight run to the front door. I swing both into one hand and twist the handle, brace the door with my foot until Dax grabs it off me and we both lurch into the hall, Dax closing the door silently behind us.
I can hear Eric shouting obscenities in stereo. He’s loud enough to be heard in the corridor, but his tinny voice also clamours out of the phone Dax holds in his hand. He disconnects rather than listen to the man who promised to be a dad curse out my mother. Instead of saying a word, he reaches down and takes the sacks from me. “Lead the way, little gem.”
I take us to the emergency stairs, down two flights and then back into the tenth-floor corridor to call for the elevator.
“Why?” he asks concisely once he deems it safe to talk. Hearing his regular voice is strange. I’d grown oddly comforted by his whispers and the intimacy that formed between us.
“We heard the elevator doors ping open earlier. I didn’t want to risk Eric hearing or seeing us.”
He nods but more to himself than to me. “You’re sharp. Your reasoning is logical and forward thinking.”
“Thanks, I think.”
“Definite compliments.” He grins, nudging his head toward the open elevator doors so that I can get in first.
“He’ll have your number.” I warn, leaning back against the wall. Dax takes a second to pick up on my meaning. “Eric,” I clarify.
“No, he won’t.” His grin flashes again as he winks. “The Clean app takes care of that for us. Any call that goes to that device will only flash up as an incoming call. No number, no name. No recall data. It’s all encoded. The phone will remain traceable too. So, if he keeps it with him, we’ll always know where he is. It’s a fail-safe for our team members in case they’re in tricky situations.”
“And here I thought you were a legitimate businessman dealing in property, or urban rejuvenation, or something.”
“Ah. You know of Trevainne?”
“Everyone knows about the Art District and that you pulled off the entire transformation without the city having to pay a thing. Harrison’s heroes.” I scoff and then remember that this man has literally become my lifeline in the last couple of days. The term hero isn’t so much hyperbole as fact.
“Trevainne is many things to many people. For me, it’s a means to an end. I’m nothing more than a caretaker.”
“Yeah, but there’s a difference between a man who sweeps floors and the man who cleans up an entire district.”
“Is there though?”
At first, I’m tempted to argue my point but there’s something about the amused way he pitches his question that makes me think he knows what he’s talking about—or at least he’ll throw an argument that I won’t be able to defend against.
Is he right? Is it the same? Does it matter right now?
I change the course of our conversation. “The man who came into my room…”
