Chapter 24 This Can’t Be Happening
If eyes could actually set someone on fire, Beatrice Wolfe would be a pile of expensive lavender ash on the rug right now.
She’s standing there, the red mark from Greyson’s slap still vivid on her cheek, but her composure is leaking out of her like water from a cracked vase. Her mouth opens, then shuts, then opens again. A tiny, frantic sound escapes her throat, a stutter that she can’t quite choke down.
"I... I... how dare you?" Beatrice stammers. Her fingers are digging into the fabric of her skirt so hard the silk is beginning to moan. I’m sure when she lets go of it, there would be a crinkle there. "You think you can just... just throw dirt and see what sticks? How dare you accuse me of kidnapping my own family?"
I take a step toward her. I can smell her sweat now, sharp and sour under the floral weight of her perfume. "Answer the question, Beatrice. Why were you so quick to point at Julian? How did you even know about Julian being there in the first place? I know Leo only called Alistair, and he didn’t call you. It’s almost like you had the script memorized before the actors even took the stage."
Beatrice’s face contorts. She looks at the Old Madam, then back at me, her eyes darting around the room as if looking for a trapdoor. She finds her voice, and it’s a high, screeching thing that makes the fine china on the side table ring. Her voice always gets high when she’s being defensive and looking for someone to be on her side.
"Evidence!" she suddenly screams. Her finger is shaking as she points it at my chest. "Produce one shred of proof, you lying little gutter rat! You have nothing! You’re just a failure trying to drag me down to your level because you were too busy flirting with your ex to watch a child!"
She turns to Celia, her voice dropping into a desperate, theatrical sob. "Mother, are you really going to let this... this person insult me in my own home? She’s the one who lost Lily! She’s the one crying thief to distract us from her own filth! And now she’s pointing her fingers at me."
Celia Wolfe doesn’t just look angry. She looks like an ancient deity about to level a city. She slams the tip of her silver cane against the marble floor. The sound is a blunt, heavy crack that echoes into the high corners of the room.
"That is enough!" the Old Madam bellows. Her voice is like dry parchment catching fire. She looks at me with a disgust so deep it feels like it’s alive and crawling towards me. I don’t understand how you can hate someone you barely even know.
"Emily, you have overstepped. You come into this house with your scandals and your blood-stained past, and now you have the audacity to accuse my daughter? You are a guest here by Alistair’s whim, nothing more. Do not mistake his protection for a license to ruin this family’s peace."
I feel the heat of the slap Martha gave me earlier throbbing in time with my pulse. "Motive, Madam Celia. That’s what I’m talking about. Beatrice lost face this morning. She lost a wager. She had to stand here and be humiliated by the very person she considers beneath her. She’s the kind of woman who takes an eye for an eye and expects change back. Making Lily go missing doesn’t just hurt her directly, especially if she can make sure Lily remains safe. The only thing it does is that it ensures I face Alistair’s wrath and yours. It’s the perfect revenge."
Beatrice’s husband, Richard, lets out a bark of laughter that sounds like a dog choking on a bone. "Motive? You want to talk about motive?"
He steps forward, his face a mottled, angry purple. "You’re carrying Alistair’s child, Emily. You’re looking at the Wolfe fortune and drooling. What better way to clear the path for your own brat than to kidnap Lily and ask for a ransom? And while you’re at it, you try to frame Beatrice to remove another obstacle. It’s a classic play. Two birds, one stone. You and that Thorne boy are probably planning your retirement on Alistair’s dime right now. That sounds more like ’motive’ to me than someone kidnapping her own family."
The maliciousness of the accusation is so thick I can almost taste it. It’s metallic and cold. They aren’t even trying to find Lily anymore. They’re just trying to find the best way to bury me.
"I don’t care about your money, Richard," I say, my voice dropping to a low, jagged rasp. "I care about the girl who was holding my hand an hour ago. And I know Alistair. He isn’t sitting in a room throwing insults. He’s out there. He’s hunting. And when he finds the truth... and he will find it... there won’t be enough of the guilty party left to fill a shoebox."
At the mention of Alistair’s investigation, Beatrice’s eyes go wide. The blood drains from her face, leaving her looking sallow and waxen. Her pupils shrink to pinpricks, and her breath starts coming in shallow, frantic hitches. She tries to hide it by smoothing her hair, but her hand is trembling so violently she ends up knocking her own earring loose. It hits the floor with a tiny, sharp *ping*.
She knows he’s coming. And she knows he’s smarter than the rest of them combined. And she knows it’s only a matter of time before she is discovered.
"Mother," Beatrice gasps, her voice trembling. "She’s dangerous. She’s manipulative, and she’s probably hiding the child herself to wait for the ransom call. We need to take her away. Interrogate her. Make her tell us where she’s hidden Lily before it’s too late."
Celia hesitates. She looks at my stomach, her brow furrowed. "She’s pregnant, Beatrice. If we’re too harsh, we risk the heir."
Beatrice lunges forward, grabbing the Old Madam’s hands. "And what about Lily? Our flesh and blood! Is a stranger’s child more important than the one we already know and love? If we wait, Lily might be hurt. Emily knows. I can see it in her eyes. Let my men take her to the confinement room. We’ll get the truth out of her quietly."
I feel a cold, oily dread slide down my spine. The confinement room. I know what that means in a house like this. It would be a soundproofed basement with no windows and a heavy iron door. It’s a storage room with a different name. My legs start to feel like they’re made of water. I’d rather die than be locked in the dark again. I can almost smell the mildew of my father’s basement, feel the phantom chill of the stone floor.
"Take her," the Old Madam says finally, and my heart drops. Breaks. Shatters. I can’t stand the thought of being locked up somewhere.
This can’t be happening. This can’t be happening.
Two of the bodyguards step toward me, and it feels like I can’t breathe. Their faces are blank, their movements robotic. They reach for my arms, and I realize with a sickening clarity that no one in this room is going to help me. I am a vessel that has outlived its usefulness.
Please. Please. Someone help me.
Just as my fingers brush the fabric of my own sleeves to pull away, the sharp, electronic trill of the house phone cuts through the air.
It’s a violent, intrusive sound. We all freeze. The butler, Greyson, appears from the shadows and answers it. He listens for three seconds, his face remaining perfectly neutral, before he looks at the Old Madam.
"It’s Mr. Wolfe," Greyson says. "He’s on the line."
The room goes so quiet I can hear the sound of the air conditioning. Alistair’s voice is muffled, and Richard snaps his fingers, so Greyson puts it on speaker.
"Listen to me carefully," Alistair’s voice booms through the room. It’s a low, serrated sound that makes the hair on my arms stand up. "I’ve reviewed the footage and tracked the vehicle. Lily’s abduction has absolutely nothing to do with Emily. She is not to be touched. She is not to be questioned. If I find out that a single person in that house has harassed her or laid a finger on her while I’m gone, they will answer to me personally. Do I make myself clear?"
Beatrice looks like she’s just been struck by lightning. Her mouth hangs open, her face a pale, horrified mask of bitter resentment. She wanted me in that basement. She wanted me broken. And Alistair just reached through the phone and snatched me out of her jaws.
"Yes, Alistair," the Old Madam says, her voice sounding small for the first time.
The call ends with a sharp click.
I don’t wait for them to recover. I don’t wait for Beatrice to find a new lie. I turn and look at Celia. "I’m going to my room. I’m tired of being the villain in your little play."
The Old Madam gives a stiff, reluctant nod. I turn on my heel and walk out of the room. I almost run because my hands are still shaking from the thought of being trapped in a small, confined room. I don’t look back. I can feel Beatrice’s eyes boring into the back of my head, a silent promise of more blood to come.
I reach Alistair’s bedroom and slide inside, leaning my back against the heavy oak door. I let out a long, shaky breath that tastes of salt and relief. My legs are finally starting to stop their trembling.
Alistair saved me. He didn’t have to call. He could’ve let them lock me up while he worked. But he didn’t. He protected me.
But the relief is short-lived. Lily is still out there. And I know Beatrice had a hand in it. I can’t sit here and do nothing. I can’t trust the family, but maybe I can trust the man who was actually there.
I pull my phone out and find the number for Leo. My thumb hovers over the call button. I need to know what Alistair found. I need to know if the wolf is close to the kill.