by Leigh, Tara
He shakes his head firmly. “I wish I was.”
“I call bullshit.” Tears sting my eyes. “Let me go, Seb. Let’s walk upstairs together. Let’s get out of here.”
Through the wet haze clouding my vision, I see Sebastián frown. “I can’t. Not yet.”
“Why not?” I plead.
“Because this time, I need your help. And believe it or not, you’re safer here.”
The stress and anxiety that have battered me like twin tides finally crest over my head. “Safer? How? I was taken off the street, drugged, shoved in a van, and threatened. I’ve been kept against my will for three days with four men who have made it all too clear what they would rather be doing with me.”
Sebastián’s lips flatten, his stare turning fierce. “If they touch you, I will kill them.”
“Just get me out of here.”
“Soon, I promise.”
He stands up to go and I grab for his hand, hysteria bubbling up inside my chest. “If you can’t take me with you, then stay. Don’t leave me here.” I don’t trust the men who have been assigned to watch me, and at least with Sebastián, I feel like I have a chance at convincing him to let me go.
“I will come back. And I’ll explain everything.”
“When?”
“Tonight. I’ll come back tonight, after dark.”
“At least … At least tell me where I am. Mexico? Or maybe somewhere in the mountains?” In all likelihood, my location doesn’t matter. But the not knowing is driving me crazy.
Sebastián looks puzzled by the options I’ve thrown out. “Neither. You’re still in New York.”
“New York? But, I don’t hear any traffic. Not a single siren.” I thought I heard the laugh of a child earlier, on my last trip to the bathroom. But Michael had hustled me back downstairs so quickly I couldn’t be sure.
“This is a chapel built on the grounds of The Cloisters. It was originally intended as an exhibit, but it became something of a storage shed before it was ever opened to the public.”
“The Cloisters? You mean, the museum in the Bronx?”
He nods once and gets to his feet, pressing a kiss to my cheek as he straightens. “But I have to go. We close in an hour and I need to lock up my office. I’ll come back later.”
I force myself not to pull away, or rub away the echo of his touch. “You’ll return tonight.” It’s not a question.
“In a few hours, I promise. I’ll explain more then.”
That’s two promises in the span of as many minutes.
I wish I believed either of them.
9
DAMON
I’ve hit a dead end.
It’s been three days.
Days.
I have tracked down every lead, followed every trail, questioned every source.
My knuckles are bruised and bloody from men who have lied to me, or stupidly refused to answer my questions the first time they were asked. My emotions are running too hot, and they are too close to the surface.
Every sentence sounds like a lie, every conversation like an elaborate deception.
Whether I am being stonewalled or deceived or there is truly no information to be gained—I can’t tell anymore.
But I haven’t relied solely on human sources.
I’ve combed through the dark net with meticulous care. I’ve tracked money, chased chatter, stalked like a hunter. I’m not hampered by privacy laws or insufficient budgets.
My eyeballs ache from lack of sleep and overexposure to the harsh light of computer screens.
And yet, I still haven’t found Aislinn.
There have been hits from facial recognition and criminal databases. Hours spent on electronic surveillance and chasing down family members and known associates.
So far, they’ve all been false leads.
I am no closer to finding Aislinn than I was when Finley walked into my bathroom.
At the sound of a sharp rap on my open door, I look up to find Burke’s wide shoulders and unsmiling face filling the opening. I’m in my office, the shirt I wear stained with the blood of yet another Los Muertos soldier. “Is it done?”
Burke gives a curt nod. “Yes. Surveillance equipment was successfully installed in Sebastián Cruz’s apartment an hour ago. No red flags yet.”
I can’t shake the sense that Sebastián Cruz is involved, despite the lack of any evidence.
Hacking has its limitations. I’ve had a team on Cruz since he showed up at the award dinner honoring James Granville, and I’ve gotten as far as I can with his online presence. There’s been no suspicious activity on his phone or computers, but I need more eyes.
Is he using burners? Meeting with people posing as staff or delivering food?
To get access to Cruz’s apartment, I’ve disabled some internal systems in his high tech building. Maintenance calls were rerouted and, conveniently, I sent in my own people to act as technicians and repair the problem. “What about activity outside of his apartment? Has he gone anywhere else we should check out?”
“Not really. I thought we were onto something when he headed to the Bronx this afternoon, but turns out, he was only going to that museum up there.”
“The Cloisters?”
Burke nods.
A branch of the Metropolitan Museum of Art, The Cloisters was designed to resemble a medieval European monastery and display art from that time period. While The Met is located on the Upper East Side, The Cloisters is more of a buck-toothed, brace-faced stepchild relegated to the Bronx, a borough most Manhattanites will never set foot in.
Sebastián Cruz curates the museum’s collection of illuminated manuscripts.
I’ve already posed as a potential collector at every gallery Cruz has worked with in the past six months.
Running my hands through my hair, I groan. “You think there’s a chance in hell he’s in the dark on this?”
Burke lifts a shoulder. “His art world circles are about as far from Los Muertos territory as you can get.”
“Except that The Cloisters are in the Bronx. That is Los Muertos territory.” I haul myself to my feet. “Come on. Let’s go to check out some medieval art.”
If Sebastián Cruz is behind Aislinn’s abduction, not even a forged iron breastplate will prevent me from ripping his heart from his chest.
* * *
“You sure about this?”
I glance at Burke as I push a couple of bills across the ticket desk. We are in the main hall of The Cloisters. Stone walls rise up around us, half a dozen tall archways leading to various wings and exhibitions. A grandmotherly looking woman exchanges my cash for two folded museum guides. “Don’t miss the Unicorn Tapestries. They are glorious.”
There is no fee for New York residents, but I’m not about to whip out identification. I don’t care about the money, and Burke and I already stand out from this crowd of mostly college-age art freaks and stroller-pushing families. There’s no reason to leave our names too.
“Wouldn’t miss them,” I lie, handing Burke one of the brochures and managing an appreciative smile.
I’m not here to sightsee. The priceless series of tapestries depicting a group of hunters pursuing a unicorn is of no interest to me.
I’m too preoccupied hunting my own unicorn. Aislinn Granville.
Sidestepping a toddler with a runny nose and a leaking sippy cup, I grumble, “Illuminated manuscripts are downstairs. Let’s go.”
We break left and wander through several rooms marked by dreary art and brightly stained glass windows. A staircase leads to the ground floor and we follow signs to the Treasury Room. Technically, it is two rooms. The larger one displays carvings and jewelry while the smaller, rectangular space holds the manuscripts.
Although I have researched Cruz’s area of expertise, this is my first time seeing a manuscript in person. Some cases display entire books while others only hold brittle, yellowing pieces of paper covered in faded script and odd drawings.
Burke and I make our way
through the room, silently peering into each case and reading every exhibit label. I’m trying to soak up some grain of knowledge that will get me into Cruz’s head. When we finally get to the last one, Burke grunts and looks up at me. “I wasn’t sure before, but I am now. He’s gotta be involved.”
“And which manuscript told you that?”
“All of them. Boss, if these old books are the only thing in his life, he’d be dead of boredom already.”
I don’t disagree with him. “I need air.”
We walk through the actual cloisters, which are really just courtyards, and then the outdoor gardens. The grounds are thrown into shadow from the descending sun, the Hudson River a silver-gray smudge separating land from sky.
I turn in a slow circle, looking for … I don’t know what.
“Let’s head back inside, hunt down Cruz.” He has to have an office somewhere.
Burke grunts. “Don’t think we need to do that.” At my frown, he jerks his chin toward the river.
Walking through the manicured gardens is Sebastián Cruz himself. Our eyes meet when we’re still thirty feet from each other, but even at a distance, I don’t miss the quick flash of discomfort he covers with a stilted prep school smirk. “Injecting some culture into your life, King?”
I don’t bother with pleasantries. “Where is she?”
“If you’re looking for the Mona Lisa, I’m afraid you’ve come to the wrong—”
I step in close to him, toe to toe. “In case you haven’t noticed, Los Muertos soldiers are disappearing lately. I wasn’t planning on killing the prince, but I’m losing my patience. Where. The Fuck. Is Aislinn?”
Sebastián doesn’t blink. “You just don’t get it. The best thing you can do for her is to stop looking. Granville’s daughter will never be yours.”
Because you don’t deserve her.
That last bit is unspoken, but it blares inside my ears as if Sebastián were using a megaphone.
“You’re a fucking dead man, Cruz.” I am going to strangle the life out of him with my bare hands. It is only the chatter of children around us that prevents me from doing just that.
“We both are.” He arches a brow at me. “But I’m quite certain you’ll already be waiting for me when I arrive in Hell.”
With a parting nod at Burke, he strolls off and only a steadying hand on my forearm prevents me from chasing him down. “That fuck knows where she is.” I’m certain of it.
“I agree.”
I spin back around, scanning the direction Cruz came from. Finally, something catches my attention. “Do you see that?”
Burke follows the trajectory of my pointed finger. At the edge of the gardens, leading into the larger Fort Tryon Park, a cropping of trees seems to be shielding another building. “The cottage?”
I shake my head. Fort Tryon cottage was built as a gatehouse for the former owners of the property. Now it is used by the New York City Parks Department. “No. The cottage is farther north.”
Veering off the manicured path, we walk toward the copse of trees. “Looks like a church.”
A decrepit, abandoned church—or chapel, given its small dimensions. I pull out my guidebook. “This isn’t on the map.”
Burke rattles the doorknob. “Locked. Should I pick it?”
I turn around. There are still people exploring the grounds less than a hundred yards away. “Let’s try to see inside first.”
Burke and I split off in opposite directions, peering through the windows. The place is a fucking mess. It looks like a storage unit for the kind of art displayed in The Cloisters. Art that has been irreparably broken.
There’s no sign of Aislinn or Los Muertos soldiers.
We meet back up by the front doors. “What do you think? Should we bother looking inside?”
I exhale a frustrated breath, looking from Burke up to the hulking Cloisters that rise from the craggy landscape like a medieval fortress. I can practically feel Cruz’s eyes on me.
I look at the door again, at the heavy handle that’s not nearly as dirty as the windows. Someone has been here recently—although probably just to dump off a broken statue. Still, it is worth a shot.
“Yeah. Let’s do it.” I reach in my pocket for the small set of tools I always carry with me.
“… This looks like a perfect spot, doesn’t it? Sit down, and I’ll tell you a story about a wicked king, a beautiful princess, and the prince who battled a beast to win her love.”
Burke stiffens and I spin around. Beneath the shade of a nearby tree, a dozen kids plop down on the grass, arranging themselves in a semi-circle around a woman holding a picture book. Several sets of parents accompany them. No trees shield us from this angle. If I break in now, we’ll have an audience.
“Fuck,” I mutter, shoving my kit back in my pocket just as the woman holding the book lifts her hand in an enthusiastic wave. “Let’s come back later, after dark.”
10
AISLINN
It’s been hours and Seb still hasn’t returned.
Disappointment is a vice around my ribs, so tight I can hear them cracking from strain. Each breath is a struggle. Each sigh is a sound of defeat.
I should be used to disappointment by now. Accustomed to the ache of broken promises.
But I am not.
Tonight, I’m handed a milkshake with my dinner. It is a poor consolation prize for freedom, but I suck it down greedily, long angry pulls from the straw. I am going stir crazy here, with nothing to occupy me. I’ve already read the paper Michael tossed at me earlier. Cover to cover. Not even the advertisements and classified ads have gone unexamined as I crouched by the thin strip of light coming through the swollen door.
Maybe especially the classified ads. I hadn’t realized that, in this age of Craig’s List and Facebook tag sale groups, they still exist at all. I’ve taken some small measure of comfort in reading about the lakefront cabin in Maine, offering fishing and boating and summer camp options for the busy Manhattan family to escape to on weekends or for the entire summer, and a free weekly knitting class at a Williamsburg yarn store.
Maybe I’ll live long enough to knit by a lake.
The straw gives a final gurgle and I drop the empty cup, lifting my hands to my temples with a groan. Ugh. Brain freeze.
Except … it isn’t.
My arms barely make it to my shoulders before falling limply to my lap. Michael, who yanks open the door when he hears the cup drop, catches me as I list to the side, nearly toppling off my chair.
I open my mouth to protest, but my tongue won’t cooperate. Even my eyelids are too heavy to hold a glare. They slam shut just as I hear one of the other men chortle, “Let’s fuck her now. No one will know, not even her.”
I never should have drunk that damn milkshake.
11
DAMON
I’ve been sitting in Granville’s home office for nearly two hours when he finally comes through the door. Impatience thrums just beneath my skin; I am anxious to return to The Cloisters with Burke and break into the dilapidated chapel. I don’t expect to find much, but it’s a lead worth exploring.
Even so, I wait until he pours himself a Scotch, downs half of it and then tops up his glass again.
And then I pull the chain of his desk lamp, revealing my presence.
Granville jumps, spilling liquor all over his suit. “Goddamn it, King,” he howls, setting down his glass and swatting at his chest. “What are you doing here?”
“We had a deal. I clean up your mess and take care of your daughter while I do it.”
“Yeah? Well, apparently, she’s someone else’s problem now. You should be grateful. I know I am.”
“Grateful?”
He glares at me and returns to the bar, pouring himself a fresh drink. “Yes, grateful. Like me, you have more important things to worry about.”
There is nothing more important to me than Aislinn. “What would those be?” I prod, getting the same ominous vibe from Granville as I did from Lytto
n just a few days ago.
He takes a sip of his drink and ignores the question. “All this interest in my bastard daughter.” He grunts. “Who knew?”
I bite down on my urge to throttle him. “What kind of interest?”
He finishes his scotch, swaying a bit on his feet as he grabs the bottle by the neck and sets it on his desk. Dropping into the chair opposite me, the one normally reserved for visitors but is the only option currently available, he refills his glass again. It is obvious that these aren’t his first drinks of the night.
I don’t mind. Liquor loosens the tongue.
I lean back in his chair and cross my feet on a corner of his desk. “What kind of interest, Granville?” I repeat.
“Nothing you would know anything about.”
“Try me.”
“Fine.” He belches then pats his chest. “Wedding bells, if you must know. I had my heart set on Chad, though. That boy is going to make a fine politician. Looks like a Kennedy, and Aislinn would make a great Jackie. Their wedding would have been the perfect kick-off to my campaign, the start of a new political legacy.”
My blood heats at the thought of Aislinn and Chad together, but I manage to keep my temper in check. “And now that’s not happening?”
“Doesn’t look that way anymore. Hugo Cruz has made me an offer.” He swills the amber liquid in his glass, a giddy laugh leaking from his lips. “An offer I can’t refuse.”
12
AISLINN
When I wake up, I’m not lying on a thin, lumpy cot that smells of mildew and urine, with only my elbow to cushion my head. The blanket wrapped tightly around my shoulders isn’t threadbare and damp, completely ineffectual against the wet, drafty basement.
Instead, my head is nestled into a fluffy pillow, the mattress beneath me a luxurious cloud. I am cocooned within a thick duvet that smells of talc and lavender.