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“Effie…” Finn starts but looks up, a crease between his brows as if he’s struggling to find the words. “We’re on the same team now. Whether we want it or not, it’s the truth. You’re stuck with me now.” He forces a dry laugh. I don’t join in.
“Right, well, my point is, we’re a team—”
“And we better get our head in the game? Where are you going with this, Finn?”
He sucks in a breath before trying again. “My brothers and I? We’re unbeatable because the two things we value most are loyalty and honesty. We all should have died on the streets years ago, but we didn’t, and now we’re the most powerful fucking family in this country.
“Look at what happened with us, I wasn’t honest with Cash—I should have told him as soon as I learned aboutLes Arnaqueuses, but I didn’t and here we are.” I give him aspeed it along, buddylook. “The point is, you’re my wife and I’m your husband. Which means no more secrets, no more plotting, no more backstabbing, or double crossing. Honesty and loyalty.”
Honesty and loyalty.
Two words that make my stomach roil, especially given the earnestness in Finn’s eyes. His hand opens and closes into a fist as if he wants to reach for mine but decides against it.
Honesty and loyalty.
I don’t know if I will ever be able to give those things to a Fox—especially now. But more importantly, can I ever expect those thingsfroma Fox?
“So I wanted to start with this.” He turns to the metal doors of the structure and slides a panel to the side. He places his palm on an electronic screen and steps forward, a blue laser scanning his eye. Then he enters a pin on a keypad.
I can hear the sound of locks as mechanisms disengage on the other side of the door and my stomach drops. Finn only confirms my suspicion. “This whole thing started because you wanted our cache. Well, here it is.”
He pushes the unlocked doors open, the metal hinges groaning. “Biometric and password-based security. And before you get any ideas, the hand has to be attached to a person with a beating heart.”
“Dammit,” I quip. He gives me a wink over his shoulder, and it helps diffuse some of the tension knotting in my body.
We climb a ladder down into the bunker, and the air grows distinctly colder under the layers of earth and concrete. “It used to be a fallout shelter, built during the Cold War,” Finn explains. “Added some security features, and it’s now one of the biggest, most secure safes in the country.”
I take in the large room filled with stacks of art, wooden crates full of priceless artifacts, piles of gold and jewelry made of precious gems like something out of an Indiana Jones movie.
“I can’t believe some of this stuff even exists,” I say in awe, my attention captured by a Renoir painting. I feel Finn come up behind me, every nerve in my body attuned to his presence.
“Do you still paint?” he asks in a low, tender voice and brushes hair off my neck, a cold burst of air on the exposed skin.
“No,” I say, tilting my head at the painting, and Finn dusts a finger down the slope of my neck, making the hairs on my arms raise.
“Why not?”
I turn around, and he looks down on me, eyelids heavy and gaze locked on my lips. “Same reason you drive a million-dollar sports car and stopped tinkering on your old truck.”
He scoffs. “Touché, princess. I guess we’ve both given up things we love.” And wanders away slowly.
I carefully flip through a lost sketchbook that once belonged to Picasso when a loose sheet of paper slips out and flutters to the floor. I pick it up, turning it over before tucking it back in place.
My heart stutters looking at the drawing. I struggle to get in enough air, as if the oxygen has been sucked out of the bunker. Staring back at me is my own reflection, ten years younger.
My throat goes dry as I realize it’s one of the last things I drew before I stopped. The self-portrait I’d drawn when my father flew into a rage and tore up my drawings. Before rushing out of the house to meet Finn, I shoved one in my pocket. It must have fallen out of my pocket at some point…
I’d forgotten all about it.
Remembering that he brought me to the Bartlett Farms that day—and by the tattered look of the drawing, I wonder if Finn found it on the ground here. There’s brushes of dirt and the pencil lead is smudged in some areas.
I don’t know how to feel. I don’t know what to think. My jaw grows tight, and my eyes sting with tears. I have so many questions, most of all why is it here? Why is my silly, little sketch among gold artifacts and long-lost masterpieces?
I’m not sure I can handle the answer, so like a coward, I close the journal and tell Finn I’m ready to leave.
I’m silent on the walk back, my thoughts so preoccupied by what I found and what it means, that I don’t realize he’s led us right to the dock. The sun is touching down, and the last bits of rusty sunset are giving way to indigo and stars. The moon is tucked behind a cloud, but crickets still sing to welcome her rise.
Hit with a wave of emotion and what we could have been, I barely feel Finn sweep my hand in his and guide us to the edge of the dock. Just like that night, water lilies float on top of the inky water, catching the final bits of sun in their white petals.
