He’s the one who brought me here. He’s the one who "owns" the house. If I can figure out how he moves, how he thinks when he isn't being a "Don," I can find a way to make myself a cost-prohibitive asset. If I’m too much trouble to keep, he’ll have to let me go.
I’m currently on the 'stubborn and annoying' track. I need to move into 'indispensable.'
A soft thud at the bottom of the door stops my internal monologue. It’s not Miller’s heavy knock. It’s a small, hesitant sound.
I walk over and pull the handle. To my surprise, the door clicks open. It’s not locked from the outside right now.
Standing in the hallway is Maeve.
She’s wearing a yellow sundress and holding a large, battered cardboard box. She looks up at me with those wide, dark eyes, Lorcan’s eyes, but without the ice. She looks solemn, her little mouth set in a thin line.
"Hi, Maeve," I say, my voice softening instinctively. "Are you looking for your dad?"
She shakes her head. "He’s in the loud room. With the buttons."
Right. "What’s in the box?"
"A puzzle," she says, holding it out. "It’s a desert, but a piece is missing. Mrs. Higgins said I can’t do it alone because the sky is too big."
I look at the box, then back at the empty, beautiful suite behind me. I could spend the next hour trying to pick the lock on the service elevator, or I could sit on the floor with a five-year-old.
"The sky is always the hardest part," I agree, stepping back and opening the door wider. "Come on in. I’m a bit of a puzzle expert. I once did a five-thousand-piece map of the London Underground. My roommate Tania called it a 'cry for help,' but I think it was art."
Maeve walks in, her small sandals clicking on the marble. We sit on the rug in the center of the room and dump the pieces out.
It’s a disaster. Five hundred pieces of varying shades of sand and blue.
"Okay, strategy first," I say, sorting the edges into a pile. "Edges first. Always. It’s about creating boundaries, Maeve. Once you know where the world ends, it’s easier to fill in the middle."
Maeve watches me with intense focus. She picks up a blue piece and tries to fit it into a brown one. "Dada says boundaries are for people who don't have enough men."
I pause, a blue piece of sky in my hand. "Your daddy says a lot of things, doesn't he?"
"He’s also a messy eater," she says matter-of-factly, her small fingers sorting through the pile. "He was messy again this morning. He tried to hide his hand, but I saw the tomato sauce."
The "tomato sauce." My stomach does a slow, sickening roll. I think about the man who held me on the plane, the man who smashed my phone. He’s a killer. A Don. And he’s the only person standing between this little girl and whatever ghosts are haunting her family.
"Is he mean to you?" I ask, my voice low. “Your Dada?”
"No," Maeve says, looking surprised. "He gives me the best LEGOs. And he lets me stay up late when he thinks I’m sleeping. But he’s always looking at the door. Even when we’re eating."
I grin at her.
"We’ll find the sky, Maeve," I say, reaching out and tucking a stray curl behind her ear. "Piece by piece."
We work in silence for a while. She’s good at the colors. I’m good at the shapes. We fit the corners together, creating a frame of sand and scrub brush.
"Why are you here?" Maeve asks suddenly. "Is it because of the 'eye'?"
I freeze. "The eye?"
"Daddy was talking to Kieran. He said Silas said, 'an eye for an eye.' I have two eyes. Do you have two eyes?"
"I do," I say, my heart hammering. Silas. The ghost who wants a life for a life. The man who thinks I’m Lorcan’s weakness.
"I don't like Silas," Maeve whispers, her fingers hovering over a piece of the cactus. "He made Mama go away."
The air in the room feels like it just lost ten degrees. I didn't know about her mother. I mean, I guessed, but hearing it from her—the casual, heartbreaking way a child describes a tragedy—is different.
