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But whatever he’s about to say is cut short by a yawn.
I squeeze his fingers. “Come to bed.”
He shrugs again, and this time he can’t cover up his wince. “I can’t do you any good there.”
“You can sleep, can’t you? Beside me? We can turn on the air conditioner and burrow under the blankets and pretend we’re snowed into an Arctic cabin with nothing to do but sleep until the rescue team finds us.”
“I need to…”
Maybe he’s so tired he doesn’t remember the end of the sentence. Maybe his to-do list is so long he can’t choose which obligation comes next. Maybe he actuallyhasreached the end of his tasks for the day.
But I take his trailing off as permission. I stand, still holding his hand. I tug, getting him to edge around his desk. We walk to the elevator, out the lobby door, and across the parking lot to the sleek brick wall of our home.
He follows me upstairs. He lets me take off his shirt and his jeans. He humors me when I gasp at the black thread of his stitches, and he pretends I don’t sway a little on my feet as I imagine the doctor’s needle pulling through his flesh.
We get into bed together. He curls around me, resting his heavy hand on my hip. I force myself to breathe evenly and deeply, doing everything in my power to lull him to sleep.
And when he’s out, when his breath is heavy as a locomotive, when his fingers splay loosely across my leg, I stare at the clock as it flickers from minute to minute to minute.
I should feel good about helping Trap. I should be grateful that last night’s raid in Philadelphia was as successful as it was. I should feel healed by my decision to save Leo, to let my brother live.
Instead, I feel drained.
Uncertain.
Empty.
And I can’t think of a single way to solve that, even though I try to come up with something all afternoon and evening, well after the bedroom darkens with the autumn sunset.
8
TRAP
* * *
So, Alix was right.
I did need more to fuel my body than a fucking gallon of electric green Monster energy drink. And I didn’t know how tired I was until I slept fourteen hours straight—through dinner, past midnight, only waking when the gray light before dawn leaks through the bedroom window.
I ease out of bed, grabbing a pair of sweatpants against the early morning chill. My shoulder is stiff as hell, and the stitches make it feel like I’m wearing a shirt three sizes too small. The doc said I’ll have a bitch of a scar, which only seems fair if I feel this shitty. But I take a look in the mirror, and nothing’s red or warm to the touch. So it looks like I’ll live another day.
Downstairs, I raid the refrigerator. There’s leftover chicken from dinner a few nights back; I can’t remember exactly when, but it smells fine so I gulp it down with as little chewing as possible. I grab a fistful of grapes, then go back for half a bag of those baby carrots Alix loves. By then I’m in full vacuum mode, and pretty much nothing is safe. I finish by drinking milk straight from the carton.
All of which means I’m feeling pretty good when I sit down at my computer and log into my work account. And that’s when the shit hits the fan.
Emails. Dozens of them—from every member of the Diamond Ring. But it’s not just clients flooding my digital door. It’s media too. It seems like every paper in the country—from theNew York Timesto theLos Angeles Times, along with TV, cable news shows, and God knows who else—wants me to comment.
My in-house lawyers are shitting bricks. My hired gun, the New York big dick who’s representing me in the criminal investigation into Klaus Herzog’s murder, has demanded that I call him immediately, on his private line.
Texts are rolling in too, at least one a minute as I try to shovel my way through the crap. It looks like primo Diamond Ring member Steve Torrington sent a message every five minutes from midnight on, ending with a five am instruction in all caps: TAKE YOUR FUCKING DIAMOND RING AND SHOVE IT SIDEWAYS UP YOUR ASS.
Looks like we’ll need a new member to fill his seat.
Then again, maybe no one will jump at the opportunity.
The crisis launched at 12:01 this morning. That’s when every member of the Diamond Ring received a video at his personal email account. The tape should have been familiar—it’s Klaus Herzog’s murder. This time, though, the face of every onlooker is clearly visible, conveniently identified with name, address, and personal contact information for full internet distribution.
Every fucking member of the Diamond Ring is on the hook for aiding and abetting murder. Jonas and Ansel’s demands are clear: Half a billion from every man, deposited to a Swiss bank account. If not received from every witness to the killing, the video will go public. They all sink or swim together.
