I massage my temples, wishing my head didn’t feel like it was stuffed with cotton from my exhaustion. Every thought feels sluggish and hard to conjure up but I push myself because there has to be a reason that this album, with the will, was left in my closet.
My mind drifts back to what Sera asked me, about whether what happened in Mexico was a kidnapping attempt. As soon as she said it I knew she was right. I assumed attack and rape or whatever, but they never tried to take my clothes off and though they did beat me up, it was more to subdue me, not to inflict serious damage. Just the fact that I have no scars, at least the kind you can see, proves that. What I remember is that they came in, hit me ’til I stopped fighting, tied me up, and threw me down on the floor. I assumed that the rape would have come next if the police hadn’t barged in at that moment, but what if they were really getting ready to take me somewhere to hold me hostage? It makes a lot more sense and if I’d ever allowed myself to think about that day, I’d probably have realized it before. And my dad, who probably thought about it plenty, most likely realized it too.
After Mexico my dad got us both bodyguards around the clock and gave me a big lecture about being more careful. I assumed it was because he didn’t want his oldest daughter getting raped but it was more likely that he didn’t want to risk losing his fortune if I got kidnapped. It’s heartwarming to realize his concern was more for his money than me and I’m starting to get angry about that when I notice the album next to me, the whole reason I’m thinking about all of this in the first place. I settle myself down and focus.
If I am going to assume my dad thought Mexico was a kidnapping attempt and that he put this album in my closet for me to find, it must have been something he thought I’d need if something like Mexico happened again, but this time to him. After all, he beefed up his own security so he must have known we were both vulnerable. So even though there are copies of this will in his office and in his lawyer’s office—and that’s when I gasp.
Mr. Black died four weeks ago in a car crash and all of a sudden I realize it might not have been an accident after all. I remember my dad that night he came back from Mr. Black’s funeral, how remote he was until Marc cheered him up. Did he suspect that Mr. Black was murdered?
I’m probably going off the deep end but the more I think about it, the more I believe I’m onto something. My dad’s lawyer must have had documents that would make it hard for Marc to transfer the money to himself, so the lawyer had to go. And if my dad left me the will, then the will has to be one of those documents, something that could somehow impede Marc. I hunker down and read.
It’s on the second page. I always assumed my dad would leave the company to Marc or have it sold to the board members with the money going to Abby and me. My dad made decisions based on a business bottom line and that would be the best business choice, to pass the company on to someone who could run it in the most money-making way possible, carrying on my dad’s name and legacy while at the same time providing handsomely for his daughters. And really I never gave it much thought. I knew I’d have enough money that I could pursue whatever I felt like pursuing and what my dad did with his company was his call. Now, seeing the choice he made, has my eyes getting watery and my chest getting tight. Because my dad didn’t make the best business decision at all.
The person he named sole heir to Barett Pharmaceuticals is me.
CHAPTER 21
Sera
“So how do we do this?” Hudson asks.
We’ve just gotten back to the game room and it’s time to get my classmates onboard with our plan, a task that seems even more daunting than escaping the agents. We are lurking by the sofa where no agents can overhear us, looking at my NCCD classmates who are in their spots on the sofas, a few people asleep, everyone else looking about halfway there. They are not going to welcome us into that circle.
“I’m not sure,” I say. My mouth is dry and chalky and my breath probably smells atrocious. I can’t convince anyone to believe me with breath like this. “I need some water and then we can figure it out.”
The agent who usually guards this doorway is out in the hall and he or she nods when we ask if it’s okay to go get a drink.
“I think we start by convincing one person,” Hudson says softly as I fill a glass from the big bottle of imported French water on the wooden stand by the sink.
“That makes sense but we have to wait for a chance to get someone alone,” I say, automatically checking that the agents in the doorway are too far away to hear. “Maybe we stake out the bathroom.”
I lift the glass to my lips and drink about half of it down in one gulp.
Hudson laughs, then wrinkles his nose. “You don’t want ice with that?”
“I hate cold water,” I tell him, refilling my glass.
“You’re weird,” he says in this affectionate tone that makes my heart a little fluttery. I take a long drink of water to focus firmly on reality.
I turn and see Franz and Ella walk in. They kind of glance at Hudson as they head over to the fridge. Franz’s eye is swollen and tender-looking but one of the guys gave him an undershirt so he’s no longer wearing a blood-soaked shirt.
Hudson and I exchange a look—this is our shot.
“Can we talk to you guys for a second?” I ask, going over to them so that the agents in the doorway don’t overhear.
Now they are the ones exchanging a look and I wish I hadn’t asked, that I’d just started talking.
“It’s important,” Hudson says, joining us.
There’s no denying the rock star power, not when he smiles that famous smile. They both nod, their faces practically lit up by his glow.
“We’ve been talking to some people and the situation has gotten really bad,” I say softly, double-checking that the agents in the doorway can’t overhear. But they are speaking quietly to each other and don’t seem interested in our conversation. “The agents aren’t going to let us go.”
For a moment my words don’t really register but then Ella’s brow creases. “Wait, what?”
“They’re not going to let us go, not after all that’s gone wrong,” Hudson says.
Ella looks alarmed but Franz raises an eyebrow skeptically. It’s hard to be convincing when we can’t explain about Ariel.
“There’s an agent who’s on our side,” I say, hoping they don’t ask for more information about him. “He says that at this point the guy in charge has to erase all the evidence of this night and that includes us.”
“If they ever even meant to let us go,” Franz says. I realize he wasn’t skeptical before, he was thinking we were slow on the uptake.
“Right,” Hudson says. “And we’re not just going to sit around and wait to die. We’re going to fight.”
“And take down a bunch of trained and armed assassins? I don’t think so.” Now Franz is skeptical.
“It’s not so much about taking them down as it is catching them by surprise so we can escape,” I explain. “We have someone who is going to get weapons for us, unconventional ones like letter openers, and we’ll come up with a plan and—”
“What’s going on?” One of the agents from the doorway has taken notice of our talk and is walking over.
Franz’s face is a mask of fear and Ella looks pale.
“She’s not feeling well,” I say quickly. “We’re just trying to figure out how to help.”
The agent scrutinizes Ella who looks like she is about to puke, so my story is believable.
“Just go back to the living room and deal,” he says shortly.
We are quick to head out.
“Can you talk to the others, convince them that we all need to work together?” Hudson whispers as we go.
Franz nods once, his face still tight. He and Ella walk back over to the group while Hudson and I go to our spot in the far corner of the room.
“I don’t think that went so well,” I say once we are sitting down.
“He agreed to try to convince the others,” Hu
dson says, but he sounds worried too. “Let’s just assume he’s successful and start figuring out a plan.”
“Okay.” That’s a better idea than just sitting around stressing about what my classmates will say.
“We’re going to have trouble all talking together so it probably makes sense to pick like three leaders who can all meet and then spread the word,” he says, drumming his fingers on his knee.
“That’s a good idea and we should probably have them each be in charge of a specific group of people,” I say, thinking of Field Day in eighth grade when our team won thanks to what we called the multipronged attack. “That way we can form an attack plan with different groups doing different things, like one group staging a distraction and another group attacking from behind or whatever.”
“And the third group working on getting an escape route.” He grins at me. “You’re good at this. Are you sure you don’t have an Army background?”
The expression on his face is making my chest all fluttery and I am fumbling for an answer when his face suddenly tightens at something he sees over my shoulder. I whip my head around, expecting an agent, but instead it’s something worse. Cassidy is heading right for us and she is furious.
“Listen up,” she hisses sitting down on the coffee table in front of me and leaning in so close that I move back instinctively. “I don’t know if you’re just trying to screw with us or what but stop.”
Hudson starts to speak and she raises a hand as she turns her poisonous gaze at him. “I don’t know what our backstabbing friend here has told you but one of her many flaws, aside from being a spineless wimp, is a pathological need for attention. I’d suggest you assume everything she says is a lie and move on.”
In just a few short phrases she has laid me bare. My faults are like worms under a log that has just been turned over, squirming and disgusting in the light. My eyes fill with tears and I duck my head.
There is a pause and I think we are both waiting for Hudson’s response but he says nothing. He probably agrees with everything she said. But when I finally look up I can tell from how stiff his spine is and the way his lips are pressed together that he hates what she said. So why isn’t he defending me?
But then he looks at me and I know. I can’t stand up for myself in a room full of agents if I can’t face down this, this hatred and disdain that has clung to me for the past nine months and four days. And let’s face it, if I’m going to die, I want to do it with my spine fully intact.
“You’re wrong,” I say.
She arches an eyebrow at me. “Am I now? About what exactly?”
She wants to bait and trap me but it’s not going to happen. “I told about what happened to Ariel in Mexico because I was scared she was going to kill herself,” I say. “I didn’t know what else to do.”
Cassidy recoils, unsure how to respond because instead of attacking her or getting defensive, stuff she is a pro at shredding, I was honest, and she has no idea how to deal with that. So I keep going.
“I wish it didn’t make her hate me but I’m not sorry I did it,” I say. “Because she got help and she really, really needed it.”
“Okay,” Cassidy says, drawing out the word because she’s not sure what else to say. Before she can get back on her game I continue. “And that’s what we need to do now,” I say in a rush. “Help each other because I swear, Cassidy, these guys are not going to let us go and I don’t want to die here tonight.”
Saying it like that makes me choke up because it’s so achingly true. I can’t fathom this night being the very last of my life.
“There’s no way they’re letting us go,” Hudson says quietly. “Our only options are to let them slaughter us or fight for our lives. Fight with us, please.”
She is quiet and I hear the crackle of the fire in the fireplace. I don’t think about how much rests on what Cassidy says next, I just let myself feel the lightness that came when I finally stood up for myself. If this is my last night, at least I can feel good about that.
“I believe you,” she says finally, glancing to make sure no agents are close. “We’ll fight.”
Hudson’s eyes are shining as he reaches over and grabs my hand. It’s insane that even in this moment his touch sends shivers down my whole body.
“Okay,” he says. “This is what we’re thinking.”
He starts telling her about the idea for leaders and what he is now calling platoons and soon the three of us are strategizing, making the plan that maybe, just maybe, will save us.
CHAPTER 22
Ariel
I can’t stop crying. Not the out of control sobbing of before but tears that drip down my face, my insides achy, my throat raw. I can’t believe my dad left me his company. Barett Pharmaceuticals was everything to him and that he would entrust it to me, that he thought I was worthy of taking it over for him, by myself—I can’t even wrap my mind around it. Because he would only leave the company to someone he had utmost respect for, whom he believed was smart enough and tough enough and good enough—and now it turns out that person was me.
I think of all the times he blew me off for business dinners, all the performances he missed because meetings went late or he had to travel. But now it’s like I’m seeing it from a whole other perspective because the company isn’t just his baby, my rival. The company is something he was building up to give to me. All of a sudden all those meetings and dinners he went to, all the things that kept him from being with me, seem like acts of love. Because this whole time he was getting it ready to pass it on to me.
I pick up the album and page through it again, careful not to let my tears drip all over it. This album was my dad’s, I know that now. He kept it in his room and that’s why I never saw it before. He looked through it, maybe late at night after those meetings, because it made him happy to see pictures of me. Because he loved me. This whole time he loved me.
It’s not until I hear someone walk past, steps muffled on the hall carpet, that I finally pull myself together. I have work to do. Now that I know the company was supposed to go to me, I am ready to fight, not just for my life but for my dad’s legacy and my future. Marc is not draining that company, not after all my dad—and I—sacrificed for it. That company is mine and I am going to hold onto it with everything I’ve got. Marc is not going to get away with this.
I stand up, my legs and lower back stiff, and stretch for a moment, then head toward the back guest suite. I’m going to finish up my weapons quest and then I’m going to figure out exactly how I’m going to take Marc down.
The grate for the guest suite is in the fireplace and the latch on this one is a little harder to open. It’s rusted or something and I have to press down on it with both hands to get it to budge. I finally open it but it squeaks loudly and I stop, waiting to see if anyone has heard. After a few minutes I squeeze through the small space—I don’t want to open it anymore and risk more noise.
The room is dark so I tiptoe over to the door and open it so light from the hallway streams in. Then I turn around and notice there is something on the bed. I walk closer and then freeze. The thing on the bed is a body. An agent is napping and I’ve walked right in, practically handing myself over to them.
But then I realize the body is unnaturally still. I walk closer, my heart now in my throat. When I get so close I can smell the salty, iron-like scent of blood I realize I am looking at a dead body. I reluctantly force my gaze up to the face and my legs give out. I crash down hard on my knees, a scream boiling in the back of my throat, my hands over my mouth to hold it in and to keep from puking.
Because the body on the bed, bleeding from a shot that has ripped half his head off, is my Uncle Marc.
CHAPTER 23
Sera
“Things are going to happen now,” I say to Hudson as I watch Cassidy stride back to the group and start talking in a low voice.
“Good,” Hudson says. “And I’m thinking now would be the time for you to get your bag so we can see what kind of stuff w
e can use as weapons. Where is it?”
“Right behind me.” I wave my hand toward the back of the sofa where I stuffed my bag, back when I thought the worst thing I’d be facing down was my hostile classmates.
“Finally something easy,” he says, but then he glances at the agent in the doorway to the kitchen who has a great view of us. “Or maybe not so much.”
“If you turn toward me your back will block his view. Like we did with the phone.”
“That was smaller. You don’t strike me as a light packer.”
“In this case you should be thanking me for that,” I say. “Light packers don’t bring bottles of hair spray with them.”
“An excellent point,” he says, with a lopsided grin. “But we still have the problem of how to get into the bag.”
“I think it’ll be okay. It’s really not that big.”
Hudson shifts so his body is blocking me from the agent’s view and I reach behind the sofa and pull up the bag. I realize my hands are shaking when it takes me two tries to open the clasp but then it snaps open and I start rummaging around. I grab my toiletries bag—that is going to have the stuff we can use. Everything else is just clothes. Well, everything except the Swiss Army knife. I pull that out, then replace the bag behind the sofa and let out the breath I was holding.
I look over Hudson’s shoulder at the agent. He is chatting with a second agent and neither of them is looking our way. “We’re good.”
I open the bag and peer in. There’s the hair spray of course and also a nail file that might be useful, as well as the rinse I spritz on my hair before drying it. It’s made from plants so it doesn’t have the toxic advantage of the hair spray.
“Should we bother with this?” I ask Hudson.
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