AllFreeNovel
Share Us
This is a bad place to be. The worst place to be. Men have died where I’m lying right now.
Get up get up get up-
Uncle must have recovered the handset, because I hear him say distantly, “I’ll call you back.” His feet come around the desk, and then he’s standing over me, too tall to be real, too angry to survive.
“PAUL!” he barks, and I hear the door open behind me. “Get her in a cell.”
No, I can’t go in a cell. That might’ve been part of my plan, but not anymore. I have to get to Thomas, I have to warn him that his plan is going to fail.
Paul grips my arms and hauls me to my feet, firmly but not unkindly. I watch my uncle toss Thomas’s decoy gun across the room in disgust, then sit back down at his desk to return his interrupted call.
To Derrick Lindman.
CHAPTER 33
Clara
I don’t know what time it is because the light in my room hasn’t turned off, but I know I’ve been in this room for several hours at least.
The cell I’m put into is little more than a six foot by six foot closet made of whitewashed brick and freezing concrete. There’s no bench to sleep or sit on, no sink to wash up with, no toilet, and no windows. The room’s only feature is a drain in the middle of the floor.
But aside from the obvious discomforts I can’t bear to sleep for an entirely different reason.
Thomas is walking into a trap, and I can’t even warn him about it.
I should probably be more afraid for myself, but all I can think of is him. My plan might still be salvageable. But does Thomas have any idea what’s coming for him? He’s intelligent to an intimidating degree, but sometimes, he focuses too hard on the solution he believes is the correct one. He decided I was responsible for setting fire to Raleigh’s house, and let that suspicion color his investigation until he was absolutely proven wrong. If he’s decided Derrick is his ally, how long will it take him to find out that he’s wrong?
Somehow, someway, I have to warn him.
As if he was summoned by my thoughts, Paul appears in the small window set in the door of my cell. The lock clicks, and he opens the door wide, unworried that I’ll try to escape past his square frame. There’s a cigarette between his lips, but he takes it out and flicks the butt back down the hallway before coming into my cell. In his other hand is an ice pack. When the door closes behind him, it doesn’t lock again. He slouches back against the door, shoves his free hand in his pocket, and looks down at me sitting against the far wall.
He’s here to interrogate me on Uncle’s orders, I know. I’ve watched men be taken apart under Paul’s steady hands. The blood that would spill over the office’s floor would usually end up soaking the entire front of his clothes. But the reason men fear him is the same reason I’ve never been afraid in his presence.
When he causes pain, he does it without emotion.
Compare that to my uncle or Barnabas Harrow, who grin like hyenas when they spill other mens’ blood. Paul follows orders, but there’s no joy in his work.
I wonder what orders my uncle has given him today. I wonder if I should fear him now.
If only I could bring myself to be that pragmatic.
With a put-upon sigh, Paul steps towards me, kneels in front of me and gently presses the ice pack to my cheek. The cold is instantly soothing on the bruise I know is spreading over the side of my face. “You shouldn’t have come back,” Paul says, echoing his words from hours- days?- ago. “I can’t help you now that you’re here.”
On the contrary, this was the only way I could talk to him in private once inside my uncle’s house. Paul doesn’t see it, but he’s right where I need him to be.
I lean into the ice pack, letting all the unknowing and fear I’ve felt since walking back into this place show. “I thought that I…” I shake my head. “It was a stupid idea.”
“Make sure the gun’s loaded next time,” Paul chides mildly. “And that you’re actually ready to pull the trigger.”
I look up at him. “And have you barge into the office and avenge your master five seconds later?” I ask.
Paul sighs and releases the ice pack into my hand, stepping back to the door. He fishes around in his pocket for another cigarette, realizes he doesn’t want to trap me in this little room with the smoke, and settles for scratching at his stubbly jaw instead.
“That wouldn’t happen.”
“Because you definitely kept him from hurting me,” I say, turning my face so the bruised side is facing him. Paul’s jaw clenches, his crow’s feet deepening as he grimaces.
“He wasn’t-” he starts, but cuts himself off with a shake of his head.
