Page 73 of The Villains of Winter

He didn’t stay a minute longer after the spring trimester concluded in early May.

Instead, James flew to Mount Arcturus, Montana in the first week of May–where Congressman Pittman met with the cohort of political aides for his new campaign. Pittman flew in the fresh, young talent from all over the country, and despite the murder allegations in Connecticut, James was given a personal driver, an all-inclusive 5-star hotel suite, and a first-class flight to Montana.

The eager, spitfire political aides flocked together, expecting James to mingle with them for ritzy dinners, cocktail hours, speech sessions, and high-end public events.

Between a slur of rooftop shots of caviar and top-shelf vodka, James rushed into the cold rain without even an umbrella or a jacket. He hailed a taxi to drive him past state lines to telephone at a rest stop.

Somewhere he could tell Elliott that the investigation was over. Five nights.

Five nights. Twenty hours. Eleven minutes.

Then he could be with him.

It was Elliott’s twenty-first birthday that week on May fifth, and James had spent an excessive amount on a gift without a covertly complicated delivery system for once. He could hand the present to him himself.

Five nights. Twenty hours. Eleven minutes.

As James bolted down the steps of the Walcott Hotel to approach the taxi, a woman slapped him.

Hard enough that a couple of staffers rose to their feet. Their eyes were blown wide. One of them stopped smoking outside, crushing the cigarette under their suede soles.

She screamed, “That is not his body! What did you do to him?” She clawed at James underneath the pelting rain. Her blonde hair was drenched and straggled over her wrinkled, angered face. She tore at his eyes and nose with her nails. “At least let me bury him! That’s not my son!”

A crowd began to form around the commotion.

She slapped him with her wedding hand again.

James’s cheek was reddening.

“Tell me what happened to him!” She spat at him, hurling phlegm into his eye. She followed after him as he fled down the rest of the hotel steps to avoid attention, her cashmere scarf tangled. “You killer! My son did not drown! That’s not his body!”

She trailed him down the street, battering him with her Chanel purse. She ran in front of him to block him with her fragile, furious frame. “Where did you dump his body?”

She was causing a scene.

“Everyone will know you have blood on your hands. Mark my words. You stabbed my son with a knife and his blood wasn’t enough for you. I’ve told all my Manhattan society members. You spill blood everywhere you are.” She visibly coiled towards him, seething at him. “You don’t think we’ve been watching all of your friends? Investigating everyone attached to you?”

Shaking uncontrollably, she pulled out a crinkly paper of listed names acquired from the private investigators. Knox Pearson. Finch Hudskin. Katherine Evers. Callum Han. Perseus Theseus Swann. James Vallen Wilde III. James Vallen Wilde IV.

Beneath it, she had a Newton newspaper dated from five years ago. He had to leave. He had to find Elliott.

“Knox Pearson’s own father informed police that Knox hadn’t stepped foot in Connecticut in five years, but after Lucien’s disappearance, he’s been here twice!”

Agitation rose in James. James had warned Knox not to visit Finch.

Even James stopped visiting Finch when he realized the hired retired detectives were always watching him. James kept himself from visiting Elliott, which almost killed him.

Except, Knox insisted on visiting Finch. Knox wanted to see him at least one time on his twenty-second birthday. Then, behind James’s back, Knox saw Finch again on Finch’s twenty-second birthday. He’d brought his son.

“Did you get your friend who murdered someone five years earlier to kill again?” She accused. “Is that it?”

James bottled his rage when she spewed Knox Pearson’s name at him. Over and over again. Raising her voice as high as she could in her shrill screech. She was attracting too much attention.

“The police will raid Knox Pearson’s house, every inch of his property, the warrant was signed by a judge this weekend. So this is your final chance. I won’t even press charges against you as a sorry excuse of a man if you tell me.” Her eyes shone with tears. “Tell me where my son is. Please.”

James’s heart froze. The police will raid. Every inch of his property.

The private investigators were undoubtedly surveilling him now, hoping James would make the mistake of calling Knox to warn him. Knox’s entire phone system could be compromised. If James drove over there, he might not reach the farm in time. Even if he flew there, he’d only be followed and tracked.