Jacobson places a call before we pull away from the curb.
16
KATE
Nilsson stands at the top of the stairs, pointing down the hallway of the north wing. The security team formerly tasked with guarding the property across the street has been pressed into service as furniture movers, with a couple of SUVs filling the role of vans.
Granny’s hospital bed, though, wouldn’t fit in any vehicle. Six stout Sawgrass men just carried it across the street, ignoring the cameras and shouted questions from the crowd.
“The bed can go in the yellow bedroom,” Nilsson says, sounding like an army quartermaster. “Second on the left.”
For now, Granny is settled in the living room downstairs, sipping a glass of Anna’s homemade lemonade under Mrs. Watson's watchful eye. Breagha has already run up and down the stairs a dozen times, choosing between the blue guest room and the green one, stowing away her suitcases, losing her mobile in the kitchen, only to find it again when Nathan Cohen calls.
“Nate!” she trills. “You won’t believe what’s happening!” She locks herself in the green room jacks to carry on her conversation with privacy.
I take advantage of a momentary lull in the chaos to catch my breath in the bedroom I share with Cole. Everything that’s happened today is because of me. Because I killed Pyotr Tarasov.
Nikolai would never have received a copy of Cole’s indictment, if Pyotr were still alive.
Nikolai would never have demanded that Cole develop RedBear.
Nikolai would never have pressed for my unwilling hand in marriage.
I’m responsible for all of this.
I can’t turn back the clock. I can’t go back to the dungeon and bring Pyotr back to life. I can’t decide not to stab him, not to kidnap him in the first place, not to lure him to the park.
And frankly, I don’t want to do reverse any of that.
So I have to do everything in my power to put things right now. I know one single, solitary person who might be in a position to convince Nikolai Tarasov to call off his feckin’ dogs.
The number I need is saved in my contacts, even though I can’t remember ever using it. The ring sounds hollow, like I’m reaching across oceans, or maybe through time. I start to work on a message, a secret, a lie, something that will get a call back.
“What?”
I’m so shocked she’s answered, I forget what to say. Just this once, I want her to surprise me. I want her to be worried about me, to ask if I’m safe. Just this once, I want my mother to care.
“Mam…” I say.
“Katie, we’re very busy here. What do you need?”
“Who’s busy, Mam? What are you doing?”
“If you must know, we’re about to be interviewed by Greta Harrison.”
“FromNewsflash?That Greta Harrison?”
“Is there some other? Honestly, Katie. For a girl who’s supposed to be smart with computers, you’re the stupidest person I know.”
A lifetime ago, her casual dismissal would have hurt me. Now, I just have to wait for her to finish, so I can get back to the reason I’ve called. “Who iswe, Mam?”
Instead of answering, she talks to someone else in the room. She’s afraid the lighting isn’t good, that she looks orange on the monitor. Maybe she should have gone with the green dress, instead of the red.
“Mam!” I say, raising my voice to get her attention. “Who’s with you?”
“There’s the hair stylist, and the makeup girl, and Jade from the salon. Greta’s people said they couldn’t do my manicure, can you imagine that? But Jade was alifesaverand came over at short notice.”
“No, Mam. You saidwe’reabout to be interviewed. Who iswe?”
