Page 48

I cannot stay here and do nothing, let him do what I think he’s threatening to do.

I have to go, so I can take Julien out of his hands and delete the whole thing. I won’t be manipulated this way. Anger mingles with concern as I try to figure out how to get this to work.

Going to meet Charles would be the one thing Laszlo told me would get him killed. He’s at the rink. Laszlo Novak owns that parking garage. He freaking owns every damn thing … but if I avoid the garage and slip in from the back door, I might just get away with it undetected.

I know the risk but I'm going to do it anyway.

I get to the bathroom and lean over the sink as my heart thumps against my chest like I've run up six flights. Charles genuinely doesn't know what he's holding. He thinks he's taken a gun off a table. He hasn't. He's picked one up.

Then a thought hits me: Should I tell Laszlo? I consider it for a short while. Then I remember him by the car in the dark saying all right far too quickly when I asked him to leave Charles alone. Then of course his chilling words in my kitchen… If I tell him, Charles will be dead by tonight.

I stand up. My legs aren't right.

Me: 20 minutes. You delete it while I watch.

I want to add, ‘Then you forget about me,’ but I don’t want to stir the beast.

Charles: Ok

* * *

I quickly put on jeans, throw on a sweater and coat, then walk down the back stairs, out the side door and across the driveway with the keys in my hand. It will be a while before the stylists arrive, so the plan is I’ll be back by then. It’s not like I’m high maintenance—everybody knows I’m not.

Two of Novak's men happen to be at the top of the driveway in the gray Audi they've been living in for a couple of days. The younger one gets out. He's about twenty-five with a bad haircut. I don't think I've ever heard him talk.

"Miss Valmont."

"I forgot to get my earrings from the hospital locker. I'll be back in an hour."

He doesn't ask which hospital, and he doesn't offer to drive me there, which is good.

"Drive safe, miss."

I pull out in the Honda and catch a man in my mirror at the end of my father's road with a phone already at his ear, watching me go. I put the radio on and tell myself it means nothing. That’s their job.

Here's my plan, and it's a good one. Of course, I don't drive into the garage.

Three days ago Laszlo Novak was coolly describing this garage to me—particularly level two, where Charles normally parks his car. I know it’s different from other floors as there’s one pole that’s painted red not far from the elevators. One of the cameras stopped working in February and has never been fixed—and the company that maintains it belongs to him. He told me exactly what he'd do to Charles Bellamy in that garage, all delivered in such a pleasant voice, and he did it with his hand between my legs…

Yeah, that time he didn't let me finish and I never told him to stop.

So it stands to reason I don't go anywhere near the garage, and that goes for any level. I park on the street two blocks down, and I walk there, going in through the side door by the staff entrance. If I'm careful, I'm in and out. Get the phone, watch the video die, drive home to get ready for my wedding. Of course, there’s no telling he hasn’t saved the video elsewhere, but I’d rather not think about this. I can only do what’s in my control.

The side door is propped open and there's no one at the desk. Nothing’s going on today so that’s not surprising. I walk toward the ice rink and spot him at the far end under the lights, going round and round in slow loops in a long sleeved T-shirt and jogging pants, hands behind his back.

I go through the gate in the boards and stand on the rubber matting with my arms folded.

He skates over and steps off, gray circles under his eyes, at least a couple of days of stubble. When he says my name I can smell the whiskey on his breath, and it's morning. There's a whiskey bottle on the bench with three inches left in it, and he's not steady on the blades. In my years of knowing him, I’ve never seen him drunk.

Looking at him, swaying, reeking, proud of himself, the last of whatever I was carrying for this man suddenly whooshes out of me. I came here thinking there'd be grief. But all I manage is a weary sort of contempt, because I am about to do the hardest thing I've ever done to protect my family and this man has the audacity to get drunk on Halloween morning as if he’s the only one suffering.

Halloween indeed. Where are the decorations? There should be pumpkins and witches on broomsticks laughing their heads off at the sheer ridiculousness of it all.

"You look like death, Charles."

"You came," he says. Pathetic.

"Give me the phone." The words tumble out of me in a rush, and it’s so hard to keep the rage at bay.