Chapter 34 The Lion’s Den
EMILY
Watching an angry Alistair walk out of the room is like watching a storm front moving through a canyon.
The heavy oak door slams into the frame with a thud that vibrates through the floorboards and right up into the soles of my feet. He’s gone, my mangled phone gripped in his massive hand, leaving behind a silence that feels twice as loud as the noise he just made. I stare at the empty space where he stood, the smell of burnt electronics and his clean, sharp cologne still hanging in the air.
He saw them. He saw the photos of Lily, that sweet little girl who told me she likes her tea with extra honey, shoved into a rusted dog cage like a stray animal. I knew that would do it. I knew the sight of a Wolfe being treated like vermin would strip away whatever icy restraint he had left.
I sink onto the edge of the bed, my legs finally giving out. I’m still wearing the thick sweater, but the heat of the shower has faded, leaving me with a hollow, buzzing energy. I stare at the bedside table where the gun was hidden just minutes ago.
Alistair is a man of resources. If that kidnapper used a phone registered to a real person, Alistair will have a name, an address, and a social security number before the sun comes up. He’s a hunter by nature, and he has the technical mind of a high-level engineer. I remember the way he moved when he hacked into the city’s security system earlier. His fingers flew across the keys with a grace that was almost beautiful to watch.
I’m still stunned that he has such skill.
What I don’t know now is if those skills can hack a burner phone. And I have a feeling that the text was sent to me through a burner phone.
I know that in movies, burners are not the easiest to track.
I chew on my lower lip, my mind racing through the possibilities. Beatrice is smart. She’s survived in this den of vipers for decades, which means she doesn’t leave crumbs. Yet, even the most careful person makes mistakes when they’re desperate. And she was desperate to get rid of me. I can only hope that she made some kind of mistake, and we can find something that leads this whole incident back to her.
An hour crawls by. I spend most of it watching the rain smear the windowpane, turning the estate grounds into a blurry, grey watercolor painting. My stomach growls, a sharp reminder that I haven’t eaten since the café. The baby is hungry, but my nerves have killed my own appetite.
A soft tapping sound at the door breaks my trance.
"Madam?"
It’s one of the younger maids. When I open the door, she doesn’t look me in the eye. She keeps her gaze fixed on my collarbones, her hands folded neatly over her apron. "The Master has requested your presence in the living room. The elders are gathered."
The living room, A.K.A the lion’s den.
I nod, smoothing my hair back. I take a moment to look in the mirror. My face is pale, my eyes a bit sunken from the exhaustion, but my jaw is set. I don’t look like a victim, and I don’t want to. I don’t want to go downstairs and let the Wolfe’s think it’s okay to walk all over me.
I walk down the grand staircase, my footsteps muffled by the heavy carpet runners. The living room is a cavernous space, filled with the scent of expensive sandalwood and the faint, bitter aroma of high-grade Pu-erh tea. The lighting is low, provided by crystal lamps that create long, jagged shadows against the walls.
Everyone is there. Celia, the Old Madam, sits in her usual high-backed chair. Arthur Sr. stands by the fireplace, his face set in a permanent scowl. And then there’s Beatrice.
She’s sitting on the velvet sofa, a delicate porcelain teacup cradled in her hands. She looks like the picture of elegance, but I notice the way her pinky finger trembles against the saucer. She sees me enter and her eyes narrow, a flash of something sharp and ugly darting across her face before she masks it with a look of patronizing pity.
"Alistair, really," Beatrice says, her voice smooth and practiced. She doesn’t even look at me as I take a seat in an armchair off to the side. "We’ve been sitting here for twenty minutes. Have we actually identified the mastermind? Or are we just going to keep pretending this wasn’t an unfortunate result of negligence?"
Arthur Sr. scoffs, leaning his arm against the marble mantelpiece. "I think this whole thing might be more than negligence? It’s exactly what Beatrice said earlier. It’s too convenient. The ex-boyfriend, the café, the heroic rescue. Emily, you’ve played a very dangerous game with our family’s safety."
He looks at me with a scowl and shakes his head. To him, I’m an interloper. A commoner who used a pregnancy to leapfrog into a world I don’t belong in. In the eyes of the Wolfe elders, I’m a different species. They see my background, and they see a gold digger, regardless of the fact that I saved their matriarch and their youngest member.
Alistair is standing near the large television screen mounted on the far wall. He’s changed into a dark suit, the charcoal fabric making him look like a shadow come to life. He hasn’t said a word since I walked in. He just watches his family with a cold, detached intensity.
"The kidnapper hasn’t confessed to anything," Alistair says. His voice is flat, devoid of emotion.
I watch Beatrice closely. The moment the words leave his mouth, the tight line of her shoulders drops by a fraction of an inch. She takes a slow, deliberate sip of her tea, her breathing becoming more regular. She thinks she’s safe.
"Well, there you have it," Beatrice says, setting her cup down with a sharp click. "If the criminal himself has nothing to say, it’s because there’s nothing to tell. It was a random act, exacerbated by someone who didn’t know how to handle a child in public. Really, Emily, you should be apologizing to us for the trauma you’ve caused Lily."
She looks at the others, a small, smug smile playing on her lips. "I hope you’ve learned your lesson. Some people just aren’t meant for this level of responsibility."
The elders mutter among themselves, a low drone of agreement that sounds like a gathering of bees. Evil, arrogant bees.
I feel a spark of heat in my chest. I remember goading Beatrice into a wager that I won. If I really want the truth of this to come out, I need to push.
"Beatrice," I say, my voice cutting through the murmurs.
She blinks, surprised that I’ve dared to speak directly to her. "Yes?"
"You seem very certain," I say. I lean forward, resting my elbows on my knees. "You seem absolutely convinced that the truth will never come out. Tell me, are you really that confident that your own involvement won’t be exposed?"
Beatrice’s face goes from pale to a blotchy, angry red. She stands up, her silk skirts rustling. I’m surprised she doesn’t slap me with how angry she looks. "How dare you! Alistair, are you going to let this girl insult me in my own home? I demand a thorough investigation! Check everything! Check the phones, the bank accounts, the security! I have nothing to hide, but clearly, she is trying to deflect her own guilt by pointing fingers at her elders!"
She’s panting slightly, her chest rising and falling beneath her pearls. She thinks she’s being clever. She thinks that by demanding an investigation, she’s proving her innocence. She’s walking right into the trap I haven’t even properly set up yet.
Alistair turns his head slowly to look at her. His eyes are like chips of flint. "A thorough investigation?"
Beatrice lifts her chin, her voice trembling with fake indignation. "Yes! Leave no stone unturned! Show her that the Wolfe family doesn’t tolerate these kinds of baseless accusations!"
"As you wish," Alistair says. His tone is frigid, a winter wind that seems to suck the heat right out of the room.
Beatrice flinches, her bravado evaporating the second his gaze locks onto hers. She slowly sinks back onto the sofa, her hands twisting the fabric of her robe. I think she realizes, perhaps a second too late, that Alistair doesn’t make empty promises.
Alistair picks up a slim black remote control from the mahogany side table. He stands in the center of the rug, his tall frame dominating the space between the elders and the screen.
"Before we discuss the investigation," Alistair says, his voice low and dangerous. "I want to show you all something. I want you to see exactly what kind of ’random act’ we are dealing with."
The room goes silent. I can hear the rain drumming against the glass. Celia stops moving, and Arthur Sr. stops scowling. Everyone in the room looks at the screen with the same confused expression.
Alistair presses a button.
The massive television screen comes to life with a soft pop of light. For a second, it’s just a blur of colors, and then the image sharpens into a high-definition photograph.
The collective gasp from the room is instantaneous.
It’s the picture of Lily I showed him earlier.
She’s huddled in a corner, her face streaked with dirt and tears, her knuckles white as she grips the rusted bars of a small, cramped dog cage. The cage is sitting on a concrete floor littered with filth, and the look of pure, paralyzing terror in her eyes is enough to break a heart of stone.
The image is massive, filling the wall, making the horror of it impossible to ignore. Celia lets out a strangled cry, her hand flying to her mouth. Arthur Sr. freezes, his face turning a sickly shade of grey.
Beatrice stares at the screen, her mouth hanging open, the porcelain teacup sliding from her lap and shattering on the floor.
"Look at it," Alistair commands, his voice like a gavel striking a bench. "Look at what was done to her."