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“Of course.”
“Could you cancel the car I have scheduled for this morning?”
“Consider it done. Would you like to reschedule?”
“Not today.” Maybe not ever. The pile of pillows on the guest room bed is calling to me. I can leave the light off overhead. I can hide like a kid in a fort made out of sofa pillows, accompanied by no one but my trusty stuffed panda from the county fair. I can pretend that nothing else is happening, that Klaus Herzog never existed, that his brothers were never born, that no one ever invented a video camera, much less miniaturized one into a weapon that’s about to destroy my life and the life of the man I love.
“Let me know if there’s anything else I can do to help,” Susan says, without a clue how much I wish life was that simple. But then she asks, “Is Trap with you?”
It’s unusual for her to mention him. With her perfect professionalism and seemingly endless capacity to take on more responsibility, Susan usually makes me feel like I’m the only person in the world who takes up her time. “No,” I say. “I think he’s in the garage, meeting with Cole Wolf.”
She hesitates for a split second, just enough for my ears to register. “All right, then,” she says. “Thank you.”
“Is there something I can help with?”
Another one of those microscopic hesitations. “No,” she says. “I don’t want to bother you.”
“It’s not a bother,” I say. The words are a reflex, the sort of polite thing my mother taught me to say, likeI’m pleased to meet youandYes, please, I’d love a serving of boiled Brussels sprouts.
This time, Susan charges ahead with no hesitation whatsoever. “If you could come over to the office building, I’d be so grateful. I’m going over the sixth-floor map, trying to figure out the fairest allocation of offices for the conservators. I think I’ve worked it out, but I’d love another opinion so Trap can sign off on it.”
“I’ll be there in a minute,” I say.
I have to change out of my sweatpants which, come to think of it, could desperately use a wash. I don’t have time to shampoo my hair, but my raking fingers take away the worst effects of bed-head. While I’m in the bathroom, I take a moment to swipe on some mascara and a quick dash of lipstick.
I feel about a thousand times better as I head across the parking lot. Susan is waiting in her office, directly across the hall from Trap’s glassed-in corner.
“Thank you so much for helping with this,” she says. She sounds so warm and genuine, my throat swells. I amnotgoing to cry over floor plans.
“Thanks for asking me.”
Susan unrolls a map of the sixth floor and fills me in on the challenges. We have to consider staff seniority, but there’s also the reality that northern light is substantially better for any artist attempting to care for paintings that are worth millions of dollars. Freeport staff has tripled in size over the past two years, and there are lingering traditions that favor people who speak the loudest, along with those who simply take what they need to get their work done.
We look at half a dozen solutions, and none of them is perfect. If Trap were here, he’d just throw money at the problem. He’d agree to knock down walls, to add expensive air-filtration systems, maybe even bring in architects to add a new floor to the building.
“Wait,” I say, after almost an hour of friendly back and forth with Susan. “We’re bringing on a new tax lawyer next quarter, right?”
“That’s my understanding. We just put out a call for resumés.”
“And Trap wants to hire an actuarial accountant too.”
“That’s news to me.”
The instant the words are out of Susan’s mouth, a cold fog of panic grips my lungs. Trap mentioned the accountant over breakfast a couple of days ago. Maybe the new position is top secret. Maybe I’m not supposed to know about it. Not supposed to share.
Before I can make up some half-hearted lie, Susan says, “You realize my loyalty is to Trap, right? I’m his executive assistant. Anything he tells me is confidential, until I hear otherwise. And it only makes sense for me to extend that same courtesy to you.”
She sounds so professional. So competent and level-headed.
But there’s something else in her words. She’s offering me a confidence. An understanding. She’s treating me like we’re both adults, two women working toward a common goal.
I’ve never had a relationship like this before.
When I was held in Herzog’s house, I worked with my fellow slaves. I taught them English, and they helped me complete impossible tasks. But Herzog’s depravity robbed us of our autonomy. And in the end, he sold off every one of them, to keep me from having their friendship and support.
When I was a student, I worked on group projects. But those were always fraught, with one person—usually me, because I’ve always been a rules-follower—carrying the load. Inevitably, one person took the lead and ordered others to fall in line.
Leo and I were a united front when we were kids. As twins, we constantly supported each other, working together to con our parents into a trip to Baskin-Robbins or a puppy, whatever we thought we’d die over if we couldn’t have it, right then, right there. But once Leo started using, he wasn’t on my side anymore. Long before he sold me into Herzog’s slavery, he did whatever he needed to get his next fix, without regard to how it affected me.
