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God and I aren’t on speaking terms either. I’m still half-convinced I’m actually living in hell. That’s why men like the Herzogs exist. That’s why women like me are tortured.
But living in hell doesn’t account for Trap. It doesn’t explain the man who helps me out of the car. Who walks me to the small dais set up at the cemetery gates. Who stands beside me as the paparazzi swarm like maddened hornets.
He reaches into his jacket and passes me a folded sheet of paper. He hands me a handkerchief too and waits for me to dab beneath my eyes. He glares at the cameras and murmurs, too soft for them to hear, “You’ve got this, Princess.”
I clear my throat and shift the angle of the microphone. I glance at the paper, but I don’t actually need it. I’ve memorized the words.
“I’ll make this statement, but I won’t take any questions. Travis Prince and I are here today to bury my brother, Leo Aidan Key. Rumors have spread that Leo and I were estranged, but we reconciled before his death. My brother gave his life to save me when Travis and I were attacked in a brutal home invasion. The murderers who destroyed our peace were inflamed by the sort of photos and videos you people peddle as cheap entertainment. Their deaths and my brother’s death now put an end to this tragic chapter. There’s no further story. Nothing else to see. We hope that you will all do the honorable thing now and move on. Let us grieve in peace.”
A few of the paps call out questions, but their cries die off like echoes in a mine. Trap helps me down from the platform. The cemetery gates are already open, and we pass through like we’re entering our own private kingdom.
I take Trap’s arm as we walk the cobbled path to the gravesite. We’re the only mourners at this sad little ceremony. I phoned my father and left him a message, asking if he would come. He had his secretary reply that he’d be out of the country. I hadn’t even given him a date.
The minister meets us with a somber nod. He opens his book, but he seems to know his lines as well as I knew mine at the gate. The words are familiar from movies and TV shows. Ashes to ashes. Dust to dust.
Silent cemetery workers lower the casket. I drop a clod of earth onto the wood. Trap does too.
I’ve never been a fan of burials. Personally, I want to be cremated. But I want there to be a marker for Leo. Somewhere my father can visit, if he ever chooses to forgive. A place for little Alix to see, if she actually exists.
The walk seems shorter, heading back to the cemetery gates. Someone has cleared away the little dais and the microphone. Charles is waiting with the Mercedes, the door already open. The paparazzi are gone.
42
TRAP
* * *
Ican make sure the refrigerator is full of all the foods she loves—hand-picked berries in the middle of winter and ten different kinds of olives and cheeses with names I can’t begin to pronounce.
I can keep the heat at seventy-seven, five degrees higher than I’d leave it if I lived alone.
I can subscribe to a dozen magazines and leave them around the house, ones with pretty pictures, with engaging articles, with cartoons I’ll never understand.
I can wait.
Because the one fucking thing I can’t do is get inside Alix’s brain. I can’t force her to feel safe. I can’t make her believe that none of this—not one goddamn second of it—has ever been her fault.
Dr. Martinelli helps. Maybe it’s because of Alix’s background in psychology. Maybe it’s because the shrink came recommended by Dr. Hanson, who already gained Alix’s trust. But Alix has gone from three sessions a week to two, and she’s talking about dropping back to one.
It’s only been a month. That’s nothing, compared to all the time she spent in Herzog’s house. It’s a blink of an eye, compared to growing up with Leo.
Fucking Leo. Every time I picture his goddamn face, I want to break the shitbird’s nose again. I never should have let him on freeport property. Never should have trusted him.
And when I threw his ass out, I should have made sure he didn’t have his fucking freeport ID in his pocket. That’s on me. I didn’t frisk the cocksucker. And I didn’t think to cancel his access after he was gone.
The cumstain was a miserable excuse for a human being. He was broken. Utterly destroyed. It never occurred to me he’d have the balls to take any initiative, much less to open the door to the motherfucking Herzogs.
I flip off my reflection in the bedroom window, both middle fingers stiff. This has become my own nightly ritual—turn the lights on, stand in front of the glass, look out at the darkness, and tell the world to go to fucking hell.
We should have been safe here. They never should have gotten to us.
I’ve ordered the fence raised around the perimeter another five feet, and an all-new laser system will detect anything larger than a robin. I’ve doubled security staffing throughout the freeport and added two dozen cameras. I’ve hired bodyguards for Alix and me; they’re stationed in front of the house 24/7.
But not the back yard. I won’t give in on that. I built this house so I could look out at those trees and know I’m the one in fucking charge.
If Alix asked, though, I’d turn off the bedroom lights. If that’s what she needed to feel safe, I’d plunge us both into darkness. If that was the price for taking her to bed, I wouldn’t hesitate a second.
She can’t do it. Not yet. I don’t know if she’ll ever be able to.
