Page 145 of Stealing Blinds

I wish I had let myself believe in him sooner, that I’d realized how genuine he was. I hope he knows that I believe in him now.

I’m not sure how much time passes with the blur of trees and sea and unsettled desires, but soon, there are plains and vineyards. Quaint villages hugged by vast mountains. The scents of mahogany and brass polish awaken my senses. Jax sets a cup of coffee with cream, sugar, and a stirrer stick on the table before me. I thank him and fix it, ready to try the encrypted chat again, but my phone rings with another call I’ve been waiting for.

Jax takes a seat across from me, anxious to be part of this.

With a dip of my chin to him, I answer. “Hello?”

“You were working an angle all this time?” Peter begins, his voice as poised and unaffected as always.

I consider my response before landing on a starting point. “Not back when I was with Danny.”

He hums, and there’s the faintest tinge of bitterness to it. “Just since you were connected to the Noires then?”

“They’re not involved.” I sip my coffee, letting the warmth slide down my throat with placid encouragement. “They were just my way in.”

“So, collateral damage?” he snarls. “That must strike a chord.”

It’s unclear what he means by that, so I don’t say anything. But I play the words collateral damage over in my mind, wondering if he means that in general or if he knows what happened to Cash. I can barely breathe.

“I’m sorry,” he finally amends. “I know you, so I know you feel bad about Cash, even though you were using him.” He stalls there, and still, I don’t speak. “Where are you now, Sylvie?”

It takes every ounce of strength I possess to move past his presumption about me feeling bad about Cash, but the fact that I didn’t stay behind for Cash only reinforces my claim to have merely been using them.

“I’m on a train.” I stare at my reflection in the window, blending with the scenic depiction of a getaway route and stolen dreams, aware that the deep purr of the engine will verify my assertion. “I’m supposed to drop it off.”

“You got it,” he says almost to himself. “Of course you did.” He clears his throat, recalibrating. “To whom? Who hired you?” Then the sternness fades to an entreaty. “I’ve always been good to you. At least grant me this.”

That’s what I was hoping he’d say.

“He goes by E with me, but I believe you know him as Nigel Dryden. From what I understand, you were just a keyholder. He has more claim to this than you do.”

His heavy exhale blasts through the receiver. “How much did he tell you?”

I suck in a breath and nod at Jax because whether Peter realizes it or not, he’s about to wager everything, and we have the winning hand. “Just that he was one of the original three of the organization.”

“That may be,” he grits out, nearly sacrificing his practiced composure, “but his authority got out of control. He did despicable things when he couldn’t bend people to his will.”

“And you don’t?” I challenge.

“I press,” he admits, “and I look the other way. You’re too smart for me to claim otherwise. But I haven’t done what he’s done.”

I don’t believe that, but there’s no sense in sharing that point of view. Instead, I probe a little deeper. “And what’s that?”

“He was responsible for your father’s death.”

Even though Axel told me as much, it still pummels me. So, while I’m grateful to have it confirmed, I’m not in the mood to extend any thanks. “I suspected, but I’m not sure why he would do it. They were friends. My father wasn’t a threat.”

“He was,” he corrects. “Nigel was rebuilding. He wanted your father to come along with him. He felt your dad owed him that. And when he refused, he couldn’t risk the knowledge of the group leaking.”

“That’s bullshit,” I hiss, and Jax leans over, tapping my coffee in a reminder to stay focused.

“Agreed,” Peter lies. “He’ll do the same to you. You must know that.”

“I do.”

“Ahh,” he mutters. “So, that’s why you wanted to loop me in. To stick it to him? Or save yourself?”

“Yes,” I say in vague concession.