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“Alix!” she says as I approach her office, across from Trap’s.
“Good morning!” My voice is too loud. Too bright. I sound like an advertisement for coffee.
“I heard the good news on the radio as I was driving in this morning. I’m so glad the prosecutor has finally seen reason. You and Trap don’t need that horrible fake video hanging over your heads any longer.”
“I always knew the caseshouldgo away,” I say with a confidence that’s a lie.I’mthe reason the case disappeared. Because I blackmailed a man. Because I used my power as a weapon. But I force a smile. “We’re lucky it all came together.”
Susan glances at the telephone console on her desk. “Trap just got off the phone,” she says. “If you hurry, you can catch him before his ten o’clock.”
I smile my thanks and duck into Trap’s office, making sure the door is closed behind me. Susan might think I’m here to steal a quickie, but I don’t care. I need the privacy because Trap and I are going to talk about Leo.
“Good morning,” I say, crossing the office. I kiss his cheek before he can rise out of his chair. “I missed you when I woke up.”
“I had a conference call with Deutsche Bank,” he says. “Fucking time zones.”
I sit down in the chair opposite his desk, but it’s hard to find the right place for my hands. When I put them on the arms of the chair, I feel like I’m making some sort of demand. When I put them in my lap, I feel like a little girl.
I shift my feet and cross my ankles. That feels strange, so I try crossing my legs at my knees. My palms are sweating. I wipe them on my thighs.
The sun is reflecting off the bay in the distance. Work on the freeport’s racetrack is going well; the grandstand is nearly complete. The solar panels on top of the house look like ocean waves breaking against the building’s white stone.
“Just say it.” Trap’s voice is tight and low. He’s gripping the arms of his chair, his fingers curled into claws.
I swallow hard. And then I do the bravest thing I’ve ever done with him—braver than going to his home that first night, braver than taking any of the toys in his bedroom, braver than facing down Bartholomew Carver.
I meet his eyes, and I say, “I want Leo to come and live at the freeport after he’s discharged from the hospital.”
“Oh, sweet Christ,” Trap mutters. Something comes unpinned in his shoulders, and his entire body sags in something that looks an awful lot like relief.
“What did you think I was going to say?” I ask.
“Nothing,” he says too quickly. “I didn’t have any idea.”
He’s lying. He expected me to ask for something more. But I’m not about to push for details, not when he hasn’t yet responded to my actual request.
Instead, I present the arguments I put together in the shower this morning. Point one: “He’s been out of the real world for almost three years, and he needs some time to readjust.” And two: “Jonas and Ansel won’t take the attack on their warehouse lying down. We owe it to Leo to keep him safe from them.” And three, the real reason, the one I dearly, truly hope I can share with Trap and have him understand: “I miss him. He’s my brother, mytwin, and despite everything that’s happened, I want to keep him in my life.”
“Tell Susan to move him into Swallowtail Cottage.”
Swallowtail. That’s one of the four guest houses on the freeport property. The furthest from our house.
My immediate response is to ask for something closer. Strawberry Cottage is practically in our back yard. Goldenrod overlooks the bay. Holly is carved out of the woods. It’s the most isolated, where a challenging guest is least likely to be noticed.
But then I realize what Trap has just given me. He’s allowing Leo to move onto the property. He’s not adding layers of requirements. He’s not making me choose between my brother and the rest of the world.
“Thank you,” I say, very close to tears.
“He’ll need clothes,” Trap says gruffly. “And other basics.”
The same as I did, when I escaped Klaus Herzog’s grasp. This nightmare just goes on and on and on.
But Trap doesn’t seem upset. Instead, he adds, “Get him what he needs. And when he’s ready for a job, we’ll see what we can find for him here.”
“I—” But I don’t have any way to finish that. So I say again, “Thank you.”
Before I can add anything else, the intercom whistles on Trap’s desk. Susan’s steady voice says, “Your ten o’clock is on line one.”
“We’ve got the press conference at two,” I say, and Trap nods.
