Page 41 of Blacklist

Tears well in Ellie’s eyes and I try to think of something to say or do to end this that won’t result in hurting her. Someone should fucking consider that. I turn to Adair, my jaw clenching tightly as I try to think of what to say. Despite her antics, she seems to care the most about the girl. When our gazes lock, I see it there: the trapped, wild look she always wore in this house when we first met. It’s like a bird caught inside beating against the window for release. I start to open my mouth—to demand she do something—but before I can she mouths one word:

Don’t.

Another time I might enjoy ignoring this plea, but this isn’t about us.

Adair pushes her chair roughly back, its legs catching on the Persian rug. “I’ll get her ready for bed.”

“That won’t be necessary. You’re not her mother,” Ginny says, her voice as smooth and cold as glass. But she doesn’t move to stop Adair as she circles the table. “Cara!”

“I said I would do it,” she repeats, lifting Ellie into her arms.

“Adair,” Poppy calls to her friend softly, “why don’t we—”

“It’s not your place,” Ginny hisses, abandoning any pretext of forced civility.

A woman appears dressed in a pressed, white dress that makes her look like she just stepped out of the goddamn nineteenth-century. She halts at the table and waits with her arms behind her back. “Cara, please put Ellie to bed.”

“Yes, ma’am.” She reaches for her and waits for Adair to release her. When she does, the nanny exhales in relief. Adair leans over and kisses Ellie’s forehead.

“I’ll come in and read you a story in a little bit,” she whispers.

“I think we’re ready for the main course,” Malcolm says to Ginny who sits like a seething volcano at the other end of the table. She’s on the verge of eruption.

“I’m not hungry,” Adair says, and Ginny moves to stand.

For a second, I think that I might actually be privy to a chick fight, but before it can come to blows, Poppy interrupts. “Oh, I didn’t realize it was so late. I need to go!”

“Yes, you do. I’ll walk you to the door.” Adair grabs Poppy’s hand and leads her out of the room.

“I’m so sorry about that,” Malcolm says. “MacLaine women are feisty.”

Ginny sniffs as though she suspects this doesn’t apply to her. Now that Adair is gone, she looks as though someone dumped water over her anger. It’s still there smoldering, but it can’t do anything but slowly fade.

Malcolm presses forward as the entrees arrive. It’s as if nothing happened. “I’ll have my secretary send the details over about the Gala. I think it’s in…”

“The second week of May,” Ginny says dutifully.

Ginny MacLaine is a walking calendar—and little else—to her husband, except maybe an accessory to hang from his arm at parties. It’s hard to believe they even procreated given the constant chill between them.

“I look forward to it,” I say. Lifting my napkin from my lap, I stand. “Would you mind if I use the restroom?”

Malcolm directs me to the nearest one. I don’t need it, but I do need to put some much-needed distance between the two of us. I pace the length of the hall until I reach the solarium doors and stop. It doesn’t matter how far I go. I can’t escape my thoughts.

I should be thinking about Adair, about forcing Malcolm to make a deal with the devil, planning how to humiliate one of them at the gala. Instead, my thoughts are with the little girl thrust into the family rivalry. Where the child is concerned, there’s probably always drama. I know what it’s like to be caught in the middle between warring parents, even if I never sat at fancy dinner tables with too many forks while my parents argued bitterly about having to put up with me. But I do know what it’s like to want to crawl under a table and hide—to hope you turn invisible. Maybe it’s not the same for her as it was for me but I saw the look in her eyes when her mother and father apologized for her existence.

I know what it’s like to be unwanted.

“What are you doing?” Adair’s voice breaks into my thoughts.

I turn to her slowly. She’s regrouped and climbed back atop her pedestal, but her haughty demeanor feels forced. There was a time when she ruled over this house. Her reign is drawing to a close, and judging from the fear she’s trying to hide, she knows it.

“Looking for the family silver,” I tell her. “You know I have sticky fingers. All these years, I’ve been waiting for a chance to get at it.”

Her lips flatten to prove she’s not amused. “What are you doing here? Back in Valmont? Surely, you’ve moved on from petty theft.”

“Investing.” If she wants to play coy, then we will. “I’m diversifying my portfolio.”

“Suddenly, you’re interested in telecommunications?” She doesn’t buy it, but I never meant her to. I want her to see me coming. I want her to dread it.