8. Thomas

CHAPTER 8

Thomas

Clara's glassy eyes widen with horror. True, bottomless horror. Her trembling lips press together. Her body presses back into her chair, but she can't go through it, and she can't go through me.

She's as scared as Russo was a moment ago. Maybe more, because she had a front-row seat to what happens when people lie to me. Now is the time for her to make a confession and pick a side. My side.

A tear falls from the corner of Clara's eyes and runs, quicksilver down her cheek. Unlike Russo's blubbering, it's completely silent.

I'm not prepared for the guilt I feel at the sight of it.

"No," Clara whispers, so soft I almost don't hear her. Another tear slips down her face. "I didn't."

For the first time, I think I believe her.

I don't realize I'm lifting a hand to Clara's face until she flinches away from me. Slowly, I pull away.

We drove in tense silence to the restaurant, but on the drive back to the estate, the quiet between us is a living thing. Clara's tears are gone now, but I saw them .

I can't stop seeing them every time I blink.

We don't exchange words of parting at her door. When I open it for her, she slips inside like an obedient prisoner. I'm about to close it again, but something catches the corner of my eye, and I freeze.

There's a bouquet of roses drawn in red lipstick on her window, facing my room. I don't know how I missed it this morning when I barged in on her in the tub. Maybe because I was too caught up in making sure she wasn't in the middle of escaping, and I've been out of my own room all day. Was she trying to send me a message? To say she was willing to cooperate with me? Or is it a desperate plea to be released?

I remember something then that I haven't thought about for ten years. Before Clara can turn to see me still lingering in her doorway, I step outside and quickly close the door. In this moment, turning the lock doesn't feel like trapping her inside. It feels like trapping me out here, where whatever is showing on my face can't be seen.

In my own room, I have a better appreciation for the size of the bouquet. She must've stretched up onto her tiptoes to reach the highest rose petals. If she wanted to get my attention, she could have just written something. A simple Hey you , or We need to talk would have summoned me if I'd seen it. But no, she used lipstick to paint roses on her window, because once upon a time, she'd loved art.

Clara was always carrying a sketchbook with her, and it seemed like every time I caught sight of her out my window, she had a new one. She'd sit in the garden for hours, drawing the flowers around her, or sketching the patio furniture, or bringing to life things from her own head. I'd wondered then what it must be like, to create instead of kill, before I made peace with my place in the world, and what was expected of me.

I can't believe I forgot about it until now. Except, I can. I don't like thinking about when I was a boy, and everything about the time before the schism in the Warwick family tends to stay buried until I absolutely need to think about it. My world mostly consisted of the walls of my old room, and the words of my father and the tutors he hired for me. He seemed to think that he could grow the perfect heir in a jar. I didn't learn about people by talking to them, but by reading about them. They were puzzles to solve, and the superfluous ones could be discarded. My mother was a stranger who died without much fanfare or grief. Raleigh was a mysterious other family member who I would someday be responsible for, but who I rarely saw outside of family meals and events.

And Clara… Clara was her constant companion.

Now that I remember, I understand why a girl like Clara would grow up into a woman who still cries at intimidation tactics, despite being raised by men who use them every day. There's something unbroken inside her, a light that hasn't been doused. I can see it in the flowers painted on her window.

Her words from last night ring in my head. I don't want to live like him .

I scrub my hands over my face and look away from the window. Thankfully, Iris chooses that moment to text me.

Iris: just got back. should I give her the goods or you?

I text her back, telling her to come to my room instead, and thirty seconds later she's hitting the buzzer on the door for me to let her in. She breezes in with a dozen bags hanging from her arms, and I let her dump them on my bed with a little bemusement.

"How did it go?" she asks, going to the window for a look at Clara. She raises her eyebrow at the flowers. "Did Raleigh give her paint?"

"It's lipstick, I think. I'm not sure where she got it."

Iris must hear something I don't in my voice, because she fixes her sharp dark eyes on me. "What happened at brunch?"

I sit back at my desk and cross my arms. "She didn't fall for the switch-up, but Russo did. I've got him in questioning now." I almost look at the window again, but keep my eyes on her instead. "I don't think Clara's responsible for the fire."

Iris accepts that without argument. "Then you think she really is running from her uncle."

I nod, glaring at the wood of my desk.

"... Want me to convince her to talk?"

Iris's voice is unusually tentative. She's not squeamish about the necessities of her job, and she never has been. But she was making her way through the ranks of the Warwick family when Clara was in diapers. She probably held her as a little girl. Torturing a young woman she watched grow up is not something she's had to do before.

"No," I say, quickly and firmly. All I can see is Clara's quiet tears. All I can feel is how quickly she melted under my touch when I had her pressed against the wall. I thought she was capable of playing the same mind game I was. I don't believe that now.

"If you plan to make her disappear-"

"That's not necessary," I interrupt, before she has to say something we both think is too heartless.

Iris waits for me to explain, but I don't know how to explain. By my father's definition, Clara is superfluous. She isn't a good hostage, she won't give intelligence, and she knows too much to set free. But I can't just keep her here under perpetual house arrest… can I?

"Then what do you plan to do with her?" Iris asks, breaking into my thoughts. "You took her out in public this morning. Even on our territory, word travels fast. Morgan might already know she's in our custody, and if she's not here on his orders, he'll have a bone to pick with you about that."

"Fuck," I hiss, and Iris raises both eyebrows. "I was so sure I couldn't trust her, but she was really on the run, and I just told her uncle exactly where to find her."

"Definitely not your best move," Iris agrees mercilessly. "We'll be hearing from him soon, I imagine-"

The control panel beeps again.

"Mr. Warwick, we had a note delivered to the front gate," one of my generals, Hammond, says through the speaker. "It looks like it's from Morgan Speare, asking to meet with you in an hour at Cooper's."

Iris and I trade looks. Cooper's is a seedy little bar in neutral territory, but that doesn't mean this is a good-faith request.

"I'm coming with you," Iris tells me. Her eyes narrow a little on me, studying.

"Something on my face?" I ask, standing and gathering my phone.

"Yes."

When she doesn't elaborate, I demand, "Well, what?"

"Emotion," she says flatly, and precedes me out of the room.