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My princess isn’t an evil woman. She isn’t cruel. She’s broken, damaged, and her soul may never heal from all the things she’s survived. But she doesn’t lie awake at night figuring out new ways to torture kittens and pluck the wings off butterflies.
She thought she could drown her past by locking Leo in that room. Now she knows it will never be that simple.
“Tell me,” I say. “Whatever you want me to do, I’ll do it.”
I’ll kill him for her.
I’ll drive him back to Navy Yard, give him back to the Herzogs.
I’ll leave him locked up, let Alix measure out every second of her revenge.
She swallows and raises her beautiful chin. “Call a doctor,” she says. “Someone who can get here before he starts to seize.”
7
ALIX
* * *
If life was a movie, everything would be wonderful right now. Leo would miraculously heal from his lifelong addictions. Trap would open the freeport doors to dozens of new clients, each one richer than the one before. I would channel the peace that naturally stems from forgiving my brother, discovering new insights into human emotions that I could channel into successful million-dollar auctions for freeport clients.
But life isn’t a movie.
I wake in the middle of Sunday afternoon feeling hungover, even though Trap and I didn’t touch a drop of alcohol after he got back from Philadelphia. A long shower doesn’t help. Wearing my softest chenille socks doesn’t help. Sipping chamomile tea with a generous dollop of manuka honey doesn’t help.
Finally, I swap socks for sneakers and head over to the freeport warehouse.
The white van is gone from the loading dock. I take the elevator down to the third floor. The security system on my gallery accepts my retina scan and fingerprints. The door clicks open when I say my name.
But the room inside is empty.
No examination table. No rolling cart. No plastic bucket in the corner. There’s just a flat stretch of the freeport’s featureless gray laminate floor. Maybe a hint of the rubbery smell of fresh paint.
I find Trap in the office tower, busy behind his desk. “Even God rested on the seventh day,” I say.
He rubs his face as he looks up from his computer screen. He looks drained. “God didn’t run a freeport.”
I think of all the things I want to ask him. But instead I say, “What can I do to help?”
This is where he’s supposed to make a joke. Snap his fingers and order me to my knees as he unzips his jeans. Tell me to sit on his face. But he just shrugs—apparently a bit too vigorously because he has to bite back a wince. “Everything’s under control.”
“I know that. When was the last time you ate?”
He thinks. “Dinner last night. No. I had to get the ramp for the van. Lunch.”
“Yesterday?” I confirm, waiting for him to nod. “You’re going to collapse.”
“I’m not hungry.”
Bullshit. That’s what he would say. But I don’t bother. Instead, I head down to the staff kitchen at the end of the hall. There are protein bars on the counter and a bowl filled with apples. I take one bar and two pieces of fruit, along with a bottle of plain water. I’m willing to bet he’s drunk his body weight in energy drinks over the past twenty-four hours.
I put the food on his desk blotter, keeping an apple for myself. When I sink into the chair across from his desk, I take a huge bite, trying to slurp up the juice as noisily as possible. Without looking up from his computer, Trap grabs his own apple. I try not to gloat as he finishes it in one minute flat.
I don’t say a word until he’s polished off the protein bar as well. The water disappears almost as quickly, all while he squints at his computer screen, completing some sort of online form. When he finally clicks on the big black box at the bottom, I ask, “What was that?”
“Health insurance enrollment.”
“It couldn’t wait till Susan’s in tomorrow?” Susan Richards, his personal assistant, is a genius with online forms.
