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“That won’t work.”
Her voice sounds flat. Dead. Like she’s lost all hope, and she’s ready to sign a confession so she can get some much-needed sleep.
The surge of anger that tightens my fingers into fists isn’t directed at her. I want to beat the shit out of all three Herzog brothers. Dig up Klaus’s rotten corpse and feed him through a woodchipper. Grind the bloody pulp and force-feed it to his brothers till they puke.
I have an hour, maybe an hour and a half to convince Alix to do things my way. Because once we land, the cops will get involved. And the reporters. And a million trolls on social media.
I have to get her to agree. Because I don’t know if we can survive the alternative.
22
ALIX
* * *
Trap won’t let this drop. He’s been hounding me for half an hour, and now he says, “I’ll call Cole Wolf before we land. He’ll make it happen.”
Mr. Wolf might be a tech genius, but he can’t work miracles. I touch my fingertips to the back of Trap’s hand. I want him to know I appreciate everything he’s doing. It won’t work, but I know he’s trying to keep me safe.
“It’s not that simple,” I say. “Even the best faked video leaves clues. What do they call them? Artifacts.”
“Technology’s getting better every day,” he argues. “With AI, they can probably make it look like the president killed Herzog.”
“The president didn’t live in Herzog’s house for three years.”
“The president wasn’t sold—”
“Isn’t it true, Miss Key, that you claim five other women were held as slaves by Mr. Herzog?” I interrupt him because I have to make him understand. I’ve thought about this a lot, from the moment I first came to my senses, holding a bloody steak knife in Trap’s dining room. I continue in my fake-prosecutor voice: “Isn’t it true that you and your fellowvictims”—my fingers curl into air quotes—“could have banded together at any time to leave Mr. Herzog’s residence?”
Because that’s just one of the questions I torture myself with in the dark hours between midnight and dawn. Could I have convinced Lilyana to fight with me? Could we have led the other women in open rebellion?
When Trap doesn’t respond, I feed him another one of my late-night terrors: “Isn’t it true that you were allowed to walk around Mr. Herzog’s house without any restraints, without a shock collar or manacles or any bonds that would keep you from leaving at any time?”
“After he beat you into fucking submission!” The cords in Trap’s neck look ready to snap.
“Isn’t it true,” I continue like I haven’t heard a word of protest. “That Mr. Herzog left keys to his vehicles on the counter in the kitchen and you could have left the premises whenever you wanted?”
“Jesus Christ,” Trap swears, because he doesn’t have any real argument. Because what I’m saying is exactly what the police will say, exactly what the prosecutor will say before a jury finds me guilty of murder. But then Trap tries: “How many months—years—passed before he trusted you with car keys? And who’s to say you could have actually gotten away, even if you got behind the wheel? There’s a fence around that property. A goddamn locked gate.”
Fine.
We’ll keep going.
“Isn’t it true,” I drone. “That on the night in question you could have asked Mr. Prince for assistance the instant you arrived at the freeport? That you could have spoken to any of the security guards at the freeport gate? You could have asked any member of the Diamond Ring to protect you the night of the dinner party in question—isn’t that true?”
“Sweet fucking Christ. Is this how you torture yourself? Is this the bullshit you worry about in the middle of the night? This is what you’re thinking about when I wake up and find you staring into space?”
“Isn’t it true—” I start again, but Trap slams his fist down on the arm of his chair with so much force I’m afraid he’s broken at least one bone.
“You were the fuckingvictim, Alix! It’s not your fault your junkie brother sold you to a monster! You saved yourself when anyone else would have given up, would have curled up and died a hell of a lot earlier. You’re a goddamnsurvivor, not a criminal.”
I jut my chin toward the phone he’s conveniently turned upside-down. “How many online viewers agree?”
“Online viewers don’t get to vote.”
“Neither do you, Trap. Neither do I.”
“Princess…”
