“Bad day?”
A headache thuds at the base of my skull. The number of unreademails on my screen ticks up. A taxi rear-ends a bus at the intersection. The pedestrian light turns green. A crowd of people burst into action, and I find myself skimming each one for my father’s graying blond hair. I wonder for the millionth time where he is. “Just tired.”
“Let’s break it down, then. Are you stressed at work?”
“Not really.” I don’t care about Green that much. “I met with Rocco Morello this morning.”
“And your head is still on your shoulders. A miracle.”
That drags a small smile out of me. “Yeah. I’m just …”I’m lonely.It feels so ridiculous to say out loud. I’m an adult man, with a big family at home. Vincenzo is just a text away. I have friends in the city. But I am. Loneliness gnaws at my bones the second I swing my eyes open in the morning. It sits on my shoulder while I’m at my desk, fills the car when I drive home.
And when I get into bed at night, it’s so heavy on my chest that I can’t take a full breath in.
“I missher.” I miss Vincenzo. I miss my free time. I miss my mom, I miss my hopes and dreams. The words are out without my permission, but they aren’t news to Harwood. “And I feel trapped by my sisters.”
“Trapped into staying alive?”
“Yeah,” I whisper, even though I know how awful it sounds. But Harwood doesn’t scold me. Doesn’t tell me how grateful some people would be to have a family. Doesn’t tell me how lucky I am to have reasons to stay alive.
An accepting sort of silence unravels between us for a moment. “I think that’s a very valid way to feel, Alex. It’s not ungrateful, if that’s what you’re telling yourself. Let’s talk about it when I’m inyour office next week. I was mostly calling to see if there was any news on your father.”
The gray cloud clogs my throat. Forcing the words out feels like wading through syrup. “No news. He’s vanished.”
“Could he be dead?”
“Unlikely.” He’s not one to go down quietly, nor one not to be ruthlessly efficient. I doubt he’d shoot himself unless he knew the shot would pass through someone else on the way. Double the return on investment. “I worry about him getting to my sisters and me being too far away to help.”
“You’ve hired very capable security for them, and should he surface for air, he’ll be caught. You’ve done all you can. You’ve done enough.”
Maybe. Maybe not. Even with his credit card blocked, my father is rich enough to slip through the nets of the law. Rich enough to silence people, rich enough to buy his freedom. He has blackmail on police departments, hospitals, insurance firms, airlines, billionaires, crime gangs,everyone.
His absence looms over me, unsettling and threatening. A knife above my head tied to a fraying string. I get the sensation we’re all just treading water, and somewhere beneath us, my father is a shark just waiting to bite.
I wrap up my call with Robert and text Mack, my private investigator, and Jordan, my contact at the FBI, asking if either of them has any updates. Mack replies immediately.Nothing.On the app on my phone, I check the security feeds at home. The lounge is empty, the basement, the hallway, the foyer, the games room, all unoccupied. In the kitchen, my mother is sitting at the island having coffee with the housekeeper.
All is well. I close the security app and get back to work.
A twisted part of me wishes I had a camera on Ophelia. Day and night. Every room. I’d watch it like it was my favorite TV show, watch it when I couldn’t sleep.
But she isn’t mine anymore. She hid the truth from me, and I left her. I lost all right to watch her, and she lost my trust.
I have a feeling I’ll be watching her for the rest of my life, though.
I slap a hand onto my keyboard just to get rid of the reflection of my face in my laptop and try to focus on something,anything, that isn’t her.
Chapter 3
OPHELIA
Stalk me once, shame on you. Stalk metwice, and clearly, I must be a fucking idiot or something.
Or however the saying goes.
I don’t understand how I’ve managed to be stalked twice in one year. I’m the kind of person who has to hype myself up in a mirror to tell the barista I got the wrong drink. I cry at kids’ movies. How is itmewho ends up with the stalkers? Belladonna punched someone who looked at her funny at a party last week, and to my knowledge, she’s not being stalked.
Another crack of thunder reverberates through the castle, dragging me back to the present. Divya lets out a stomach-churning yodel, and the cocktail glasses on the gold bar cart chatter in time with the flickering lights. Colette shoves a sofa cushion over my head like she’s trying to finish me off. Her friend Magda lets out a tuneful hum.
Their attempts to distract me from the thunder are working, but probably not for the reasons they think they are; I’m genuinely fearing for my life, too scared to eventhinkabout helicopters as Colette mashes the velvet tighter against my ears.
