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“It was too cold outside,” she says, like that’s a perfectly reasonable response. “I didn’t want to watch this in the house. So I came down here.”
I can’t see her face. I can only read her tone. And she might as well be telling me she felt like watching a re-run ofI Love Lucy.
“I don’t care about the goddamn weather. When the fuck did Bart Carver come to Herzog’s house?”
“Who?”
I can stumble to the wall, find the light switch, make it right. But then I’ll have to look her in the eye. I’ll have to see her face, and she’ll see mine.
I keep us in the dark. “Carver,” I say. “Bartholomew P. Carver.”
“That name sounds familiar…” She trails off, like she’s trying to remember. The asshole pissed on her, beat her, and I’m willing to bet did a hell of a lot more twisted shit, but she’s acting like she can’t remember the name of a guy who signed her yearbook.
“The fuckwad on the screen,” I say.
“Herzog called him Counselor.”
Counselor.
I’ve sat across the table from the asshole in monthly Chamber of Commerce meetings for the past two years. I’ve greased his palm the way I’ve gotten to everyone who can help the freeport stay in business. I pretended like he was a fucking genius, like his dumbshitBe Aware in Delawarecampaign would bring a shitload of business to our fine state.
Counselor. Bartholomew P. Carverisa lawyer. He’s also Delaware’s chief law enforcement officer. The head of the state’s Department of Justice.
He’s the Attorney General of Delaware.
And he just turned into a “get out of jail free” card for Alix and me.
21
ALIX
* * *
Ithought I’d feel like a little girl playing dress-up, with my black sheath dress and my sensible pumps. I’ve covered the bruises on my wrists with careful makeup. I’m wearing a pearl choker and matching earrings. I’m carrying an actual briefcase.
I look like a corporate executive, or an investment banker, or a lawyer. Which might be why Bart Carver’s assistant doesn’t recognize me until she hears my name.
“Travis Prince and Alix Key to see Mr. Carver,” Trap says.
The assistant’s eyes go wide. She’s clearly seen the Herzog video. She’s picturing me in my Marilyn Monroe costume, stabbing a man to death while Trap looks on.
She has to swallow twice before she manages a professional smile and an aggressive tone. “Do you have an appointment?”
She won’t meet my eyes. But she glances toward a container on her desk, taking a quick inventory of all the pointy things in the vicinity—a letter opener, a pair of scissors, a battery of ballpoint pens. I wonder what she’d do if I lunged for one of them.
“If we had an appointment,” Trap says reasonably, “you’d have it on your computer.”
The woman’s heavily glossed lips purse in annoyance. “Mr. Carver is a very busy man. I’d be happy to schedule an appointment for you for some date in the future.” She taps her keyboard and glares at her screen. “He’s got an opening Thursday after next, October 22. At three thirty.”
“Sorry,” Trap says without glancing at the calendar on his phone. “That doesn’t work for me.”
She expresses her frustration with a short sigh. “The next appointment after that is the following Wednesday. Ten a.m.”
“Yeah,” Trap says, “That’s no good either. I’d like to see him today.”
She flattens her hands on her desk, and I wonder if she’s tempted to strangle him. All this time, she’s avoided looking at me. She takes a deep breath, like she’s demonstrating the concept ofpatiencefor a couple of four-year-olds. When she speaks, she molds each word with exaggerated clarity. “Mr. Carver is busy today. He can’t see you. You need to choose another time.”
Trap turns to me and gestures toward two nearby chairs. “Shall we make ourselves comfortable?” he asks.
