by Claire Vale
They were walking down a street that bore no resemblance to any place I knew. Tall, uniform buildings on either side, brown brick with rows and rows of small grimy windows set in sooty frames that could have been white once upon a time. Garbage littered the pavement, overflowing from the three industrial-sized recycling bins lining the walls. There were other people caught in this shot, the backs of a group of men walking in the opposite direction, the profile of a woman just coming out from one of those buildings, a man sitting on the curb and watching the world go by as if he had nowhere else to be or sit.
Granted, I hadn’t walked every street in every zone in town, but I did know this: there was no street in Capra where Councilman Thorpe could walk like that, with a woman dressed like that, even if she were his wife and this brunette certainly wasn’t.
I dropped the photos and grabbed the fold of stapled papers, an official document of sorts. As I read, my stomach lurched. It was an admission form, the admission of Miriam Edgar to the Center for Reform and Rehabilitation.
Rehab.
She’d been incarcerated there for a period of five weeks, and this was…I did the math. Roughly twelve years ago. Daniel would have been about six years old. Julian’s signature was on the bottom of the last form. There were boxes titled Investigation, Case number, Statements, Husband’s Testament, each one filled in with a reference number (or string of reference numbers for the Statements.)
There were degrees of rehab. I knew of a handful of woman who’d been through a probation sentence—first time offenders and/or minor infractions such as breaking curfew. Except for the daily visits permitted from their husbands, it sounded like a lot of locked doors, group therapy, individual sessions and hour upon hour of targeted information overload designed to brainwash the deviance out of you.
If you failed the psyche evaluation at the end of probation, however, you could easily end up in full incarceration with the hard-crack cases. That’s the part of rehab that put the fear of God into all of us. Full incarceration was a nameless, faceless beast and the women either came back like…like Miriam, or they didn’t come back at all.
The form fluttered from my fingers, my world suddenly turned upside down.
Julian was a councilman. He could have stopped this.
He was a loving husband and father. He would have stopped this! But he hadn’t. That document wasn’t a charge or intention to incarcerate. It was the actual admission form, stating date of admittance and date of release.
What had Miriam done that was so bad, not even her councilman husband could (or would) offer a reprieve?
And what the freaking hell was Roman doing with all this, the photos and the rehab admission form?
Was it Warden business or Roman business?
Roman business, I decided. Else it wouldn’t be stashed in the notebook of some extraordinary (probably) female artist to whom he had a deep, personal connection.
I pulled myself together.
Had to, with the clock ticking down to discovery.
Moving quickly, I put everything back to the way I’d found it and set off on the river trail for the slushy run I’d actually intended to skip this morning. I couldn’t face Roman right now, however, not with so many burning questions on my tongue. The most important being the information relating to the two councilmen, obviously, but my mind kept spinning back to that extraordinary artist.
Who was she to Roman?
Where was she now?
Did she belong to Roman’s mysterious past that Rose had alluded to, or was she still very much in his present? Jealousy stabbed my gut, even though it didn’t have a face. She could be either of those women in the photograph…or neither.
I ran harder, hoping to push myself to the brink of exhaustion so all I could think about was the next mud-splashed step. It didn’t work. Above, the sky was darkening again, the clouds knitting together to block out the weak sun and I gave up, turned myself around and slowed to a brisk walk.
What was the meaning of those photographs? Was Councilman Thorpe having an affair? Multiple affairs?
Oh, my God!
The photographs were damning evidence.
What about the admission form? I’d never heard about Miriam Edgar doing a stint in rehab. She was a public figure. You couldn’t keep that kind of gossip from circulating…unless you had a collective motivation and power to bury it. If it were known that a councilman’s wife was subversive, that would look terrible—for Julian, and for our society as a whole.
Somehow, Roman had uncovered the big secret. He’d held onto it.
He had found the photographs. Or maybe taken them?
If it looks and smells like blackmail, it probably is.
Maybe.
Roman was gone when I got home, but I wasn’t alone for long before the intercom buzzed to announce I had a visitor. Jessie. No doubt impatient and looking for better answers than I’d given yesterday. I didn’t blame her. And thanks to Rose’s unhelpfulness, I wouldn’t have to lie too much.
I went to open the door and wait, watching as Jessie pedaled up through the obstacle course of torn branches and muddy puddles.
“I was so worried,” she called out, sounding more angry than relieved. “Thank goodness you made it back without any trouble.”
I wrinkled my nose. “Not quite.”
“What?” She hopped off her bike, pushing it the last couple of yards to prop against the cottage. “What happened?”
We moved inside and I told her everything about my curfew misadventure and the aftermath while I made us large mugs of milky coffee.
“Wow,” she breathed out, referring to the part where Roman had brushed over the entire incident as if it were no more than a harmless prank. “I mean, seriously wow. I would not have thought he’d be that understanding.”
I laughed at her reaction. “I was just as surprised. Of course…” I caught myself and grimaced.
“Of course what?” asked Jessie.
Secrets and blackmail, that’s what! Breaking curfew was practically a prank in comparison. I sighed and said, “Roman didn’t grow up in town. I guess he sees things differently.”
“He’s a warden,” Jessie snorted. “If anything, I would’ve expected him to be stricter. I’ve met the guy, remember? He’s gorgeous, hot as two hells and all that, but he’s scary intense.”
I wasn’t sure how to respond to that, so I shrugged and sipped on my coffee. Jessie had met Roman exactly once, she’d invited us over for supper, and he’d been on his best behavior that evening. She thought that was scary intense?
Jessie rolled her eyes at my evasive tactics. “Okay, fine, what happened with that woman yesterday?”
“Beth? Nothing much as it turns out. We went to… Rose, that’s the woman from the park I told you about,” I said, giving up a name to take the suspicion off all the other half truths. It was a common enough name. “She suggested group counselling sessions at the local church. Beth wasn’t impressed, I doubt she’ll attend.”
Jessie sighed heavily. “That’s it?”
“I know, I’d hoped she could actually help, but how? I guess it was stupid to think we could actually do anything.”
All truth, and Jessie dropped the subject. I’d been right about that. She might have been overly curious about some phantom good Samaritan, but there was nothing to chase in a church-going woman called Rose who believed every problem could be talked away.
We spoke about Carolyn, another helpless situation.
And Brenda, not helpless but a situation nevertheless. Apparently she’d gone on and on about my troubled state of mind and Jessie feared she’d say something to Daniel. That didn’t really worry me; Daniel knew a lot more about my unconventional thoughts than Brenda could ever tell.
But it did make me rethink mentioning Sector Five to Jessie. How could I not see the pattern? I was growing more and more impatient with life in Capra. I was hurtling down a careless, reckless path and I wouldn’t drag Jessie down along with me.
22
Dinner should have been an awkward affair, and I was unusually quiet—but that had nothing to do with our ill-fated kiss or Roman’s secret stash.
It had everything to do with what he said in passing as we sat down to our meal. “I’ve just come from Julian. The man’s as sick as a dog, some nasty flu bug that blew in on the storm.”
My mind leapt, my throat suddenly dry with terror. The perfect opportunity. I knew exactly what to do with this. But that meant tomorrow…not next week, not next month, this time tomorrow I would either have Julian’s handprint or I would be rotting in a traitor’s cell. Not for the long, though. The punishment for treason was certainly execution.
I didn’t want to be contemplating my own death, obviously, but I could just about live (or die by) the consequences of my own actions. It wouldn’t just be me, though, Rose had made that clear. If I didn’t choose, she’d do it for me.
It was both the easiest and hardest decision of my life.
I looked across the table at Roman, my gaze settling on the curve of his jaw when I couldn’t bring myself to meet his eye.
He was a warden.
He had powerful friends.
I wouldn’t get caught.
No matter how many times I repeated that mantra, my stomach still churned and coiled until I felt like I’d wretch.
“Georga, hey,” Roman said, lifting my gaze. “You feeling okay?”
I swallowed hard. “Yeah.”
“You haven’t touched your food,” he pointed out. “You sure you’re not coming down with something?”
“I’m sure.”
His eyes stayed on me and I picked up my fork. The first bite of potato tasted like chalk and turned to dust on the way down. I got up to fetch a jug of water from the fridge.
Roman turned in his chair to watch me pour, watched me drain one glass of water and then refill my glass.
“I’m not hungry,” I said when it became apparent he was waiting for me to return to the table.
His gaze narrowed on me.
I shrugged and moved to the living area, dropped myself into a chair and stared into the fire. My nerves were shredding bit by bit, but I didn’t once reconsider the mission or make up some excuse to let it slide again. I could blame Rose for sending Beth back to an abusive husband. I could blame the Guard for being crap at their job. I could blame the council and our Society for turning us into second class citizens. I could blame every Capra man for assuming our rights and freedoms belonged to him and I could blame every single Capra woman for allowing it to happen.
But one day I’d run out of others to blame and it would be just me, here and now, knowing I’d had the chance to set the wheels of change in motion.
I stared at the dancing flames until my mind numbed, until my stomach and nerves settled into a state of resignation, until Roman came over to help himself to a glass of whiskey from the sidebar.
He took a moment, then turned with the bottle in his hand. “Would you like one?”
I shook my head, no.
“I guess we should talk,” he said, moving to stand with his back to the fire.
He cradled the tumbler in one hand, his thumb stroking the crystal patterns, looking at me and doing that thing he did so well: letting silence breed more silence.
Shadowlight flickered across his face, glinting silver into his eyes and shading the hollows of his jaw. His hair was a couple of inches longer than when we’d met, and I wondered if he was overdue a cut or growing it out. The added length brushed his brows and fell silkily to graze his temples without really softening any angles.
“So,” I said, dismissing the tender ache of longing in my bones, “what did you want to talk about?”
“You tell me.”
I blinked in surprise. The open invitation was the first of its kind, and probably wouldn’t ever be repeated.
Where to start? Not the kiss, I wasn’t going there. The artist pushed her way to the tip of my tongue, but what could I say without exposing myself?
Besides, I realized there was something else I needed from Roman. I desperately needed him to tell me it was okay, it was okay for me to take the risk that could cost him everything, maybe even his life.
I wet my lips. “What’s happening with your promotion?”
“Promotion?”
“Yeah, I thought you were in line for something big.” What with the ‘impressing upon’ you’ve been doing.
He lifted the glass to his mouth, sipped slowly, his eyes searching mine, as if looking for some hidden agenda.
“You’re the one who wanted to talk,” I said casually. “I’m just curious, whose job are you after?”
“That’s not how it works.” He went to perch on the arm of the couch, his gaze lowering to where he swirled the contents of his glass. “James Gordon, he’s the senior warden that brought me into HQ. He’s retiring in a couple of months and has recommended me as his successor.”
“What do you have to do to ensure the position?”
“Nothing,” Roman said, looking toward me again. “The other wardens will honor his wish. They won’t contest my appointment unless I give them reason to challenge.”
Senior Warden. That sounded impressive. “Is that why you needed to get married?”
“I didn’t need to,” he reminded me. “I just needed to indicate I wasn’t averse to conforming to society.”
Why? Wardens didn’t follow town rules, did they? “Does the council have any say in warden appointments?”
“You’re suddenly very interested in all this.”
“Not suddenly,” I said with a forced laugh. “I just grew tired of asking questions you never answered. I’d like to know what my future with you looks like, and how much sway the council holds over it. Is that so weird?”
“No,” Roman breathed out, a slight shake of his head. “The council elects the High Wardens.”
“Seriously?” My heart gave a wild knock. Now we were getting somewhere. “I wouldn’t have thought you wardens would allow them so much power of you.”
“It’s all about measures and balances,” Roman said. “There’s an election every five years, but the council has to choose from the currently serving High Wardens and senior Wardens already pre-selected by us, obviously.”
High Warden? Roman didn’t just have high ambitions, they were stratospheric. “When’s the next election?”
He shrugged. “Not for another two and a half years.”
“I see,” I drew out a breath.
I really did.
Roman was playing the long game.
Council approval by conforming to society. He’d already won Julian’ favor. He still had some years to ingratiate himself with the other councilmen—and collect damning evidence on them all. Maybe Roman hoped to never use it, but he would, if that’s what it took to guarantee the votes.
And that was enough for me.
The blackmail option he kept in reserve was every bit as treasonous as stealing Julian’s handprint, and I’d be caught in the crosshairs if things went sour. He was no stranger to the idea of risk and collateral damage.
That didn’t make me feel any easier about my choice to throw him to the wolves instead of Mom if the worst came to the worst, but at least he’d understand.
23
I set out on foot for the Edgar residence the next day at a little after ten. The handprint kit was in my bag, a dainty, inconspicuous pale pink bag with shoulder straps so I could wear it like backpack beneath my coat. I’d tucked one of the vials into the front pocket of my jeans for easy access.
A string of events had to line up for my plan to work, but that was okay. I’d scrap it—try again another time, another way—if it didn’t work out today. This was just a first attempt. That’s how I’d sold it to myself during the long hours of the night when my courage had started to wane.
The weather was still arctic, crazy cold for this early in November. The rain hadn’t returned, but damp clung to t
he air and hibernated in the muddy ground. When I rang the doorbell after a rather brisk twenty minute walk, my nose was wet, my cheeks were stung and my sneakers were a disgraceful sight.
If McKinnon was surprised to open the door to me (I’d never arrived unexpected before), he swallowed it without missing a beat.
“Mrs. West,” he said with a stiff nod, stepping back to allow me in.
“McKinnon, hi,” I said cheerfully, shrugging out of my coat. “Is Brenda here?”
“I’m afraid not.” He took my coat for safekeeping. “Mrs. Edgar is at the new house. They start the paintwork today, I believe.”
“Oh.” I put on a crestfallen look. “Did she say how long she’d be?”
“She usually pops down for lunch at around noon.”
I checked my watch, made a show of indecision while I calculated. An hour and a half? Nearly perfect.
There was still Miriam to consider, but she was usually pottering around in her greenhouse or otherwise disposed. Other than playing the polite host, she never seemed to be particularly present, not even when her body was. Now that I knew what to look for, it all made some sort of macabre sense. I did not for a single moment believe she’d gone in to rehab the same way she’d come out.
“I might just wait, then,” I said to McKinnon, slipping off my muddy sneakers to stack them beside the front door. “Crossing that field now would be trekking through a swamp and anyway, I’d rather not disturb her while she’s picking out color schemes.” I shot him a smile. “She’s quite obsessive about that stuff.”
He refrained from comment.
“You don’t mind, do you?” I said. “My bike’s got a flat and it was a twenty minute walk. By the time I get home, I’d just have to turn around and come straight back. You can stash me in a corner somewhere. I won’t get in the way.”
Humor crinkled his eyes. “I’m sure we can do better than that.”
I threw a hand out. “Lead the way.”
He took me through to the den in the west wing, what I thought of as Daniel’s side of the house. I honestly didn’t know why Daniel and Brenda needed their own place, they already had a house within a house right here.