Chapter Eleven

October 8

New York City

A rumbling pulled him from sleep or unconsciousness, and Miles rolled onto his side toward the transom window that took up most of the bedroom wall. Thankfully, it was overcast; the gray eased him awake. The room came into focus. A bottle of Advil and a half-drunk glass of water were on the nightstand. His bare feet hit the carpet, and Miles looked down at his boxer briefs. He didn’t recall undressing or getting the water.

He wandered into the loft’s main room and scanned the space. Clara was long gone; there was no trace of her presence. Maybe he had imagined her lilac scent as he slept. Perhaps she had never been here at all. Both thoughts angered him, deep beneath his solidly built wall of indifference. With a painful breath and a slow exhale, Miles composed himself and turned to the kitchen.

There was a used pod in the Keurig—vanilla hazelnut—proof the little prowler hadn’t been a fever dream. Miles discarded it and popped in his usual Italian roast. When the coffee had brewed, he carried the mug to the couch and sat on the distressed leather with his free hand cradling his bruised ribs.

As he glanced around the room, his annoyance eased. When his twin had lived here, the place was a glorified shithole. He couldn’t blame Miller. He was a former SEAL, used to living in far worse accommodations. Like Miles, his twin must have understood that the cozy comfort of their childhood bedroom was, at best, a memory.

Miles had gutted the place, upgrading the wiring and the plumbing. He’d refinished the original peg and plank floors in a rich walnut. He replaced the hotplate and mini fridge his twin had called a kitchen with state-of-the-art appliances, granite counters, and a sleek island with upholstered barstools. In front of the island sat a farmhouse dining table and eight chairs that had never been used. The rest of the furniture was artfully distressed leather, the couches and chairs partitioned by the building’s ornate support girders.

Miles had decorated the living space with precision, if not personality. A Gibson guitar that had once belonged to Eric Clapton hung between the two massive windows. Crisp minimalist art in blacks and grays dotted the walls.

Above the newly built fireplace was a painting by an obscure Brazilian artist. It was a twist on a traditional still-life—the classic fruit bowl had fallen to the floor and shattered. Miles had purchased it at an auction last year. Something about the image spoke to him.

The loft was impeccably decorated, every lamp, every vase chosen by Miles with great care. The only notable absence was any shred of evidence from his childhood. The only photo Miles had was a framed image of the twins playing in a leaf pile. They had been about five when it was taken. His brother had left it for him when he moved out. Miles kept it on a shelf in his closet.

Still, as he took in the clean, stark space, he couldn’t help feeling it was somehow haunted. Maybe it was the echoes of his twin or the strangely comforting aroma of baking bread that occasionally wafted through the room, reminding Miles of the bakery that had once occupied the building. Try as he might, Miles couldn’t seem to exorcize the ghosts.

After a scorching sip, Miles set the coffee on the end table. When the cup wobbled, he glanced over, spying the watch lying flat on the surface. The digital face blinked 0:00 . Miles picked it up and examined the programming. The timer had counted down from three hours.

Clara had followed concussion protocol and checked on him throughout the night.

He replaced the watch, ignoring the stabbing pain in his sternum. Rising too quickly, Miles steadied himself, then strode to the shower. The water was soothing and rejuvenating, but his anger simmered. Fucking Clara and her misplaced concern.

The first time he ever laid eyes on her, he knew. She was a child then—they both were really—cradling an injured bird and creating a makeshift nest with a cloth and a box. In one breath, Reynard had instructed Miles to deliver a bribe to a border guard, and then, in the next, he was barking at his housekeeper to help Clara save the baby bluebird.

Clara was a do-gooder, a believer in miracles. It stood to reason, after all. Clara had been plucked from adversity and danger by Reynard; like a true fairytale princess, she had been swept from darkness into light.

Their lives had followed opposite trajectories.

Miles had experienced the reverse. Clara would learn at some point that the only person worth looking out for was herself.

After toweling off, Miles crossed naked to the walk-in closet and opened the dresser. Despite all the adversity she had faced, Clara was kind. She was beautiful, bright and magically na?ve. She was also protected.

Miles recalled a story from years ago: Clara had broken the nose of one of her boarding school teachers, claiming he made advances. The teacher denied it, insisting that Clara was unbalanced and upset about a bad grade. With the he-said-she-said situation, the school administration sided with the teacher. Reynard flew in the following evening, took his daughter to dinner, and left the next morning. By the time his plane touched down in France, the teacher had confessed and resigned. Clara lived in a bubble of safety beyond her own understanding. While he indulged her unconventional and sometimes dangerous pastime, Reynard stopped at nothing to keep Clara safe.

Her father had enlisted Miles in the effort.

Reynard would spend his last dime protecting Clara—not that it would come to that; her father had fortunes upon fortunes. He was one of the world’s most powerful men, and very few even knew his name. Miles was one of the privileged few Reynard allowed into his inner circle. And while he had nothing close to Clara’s relationship with Reynard, Miles often entertained the notion that his affection for Reynard was filial.

Miles reminded himself he felt no particular attachment or obligation to Clara or Reynard. His life was one of favors asked and granted. He owed Clara—she had recently helped him run a con—so he put her in the mental debt column. That was the extent of it.

He scanned his wardrobe, contemplating who he needed to be that day, thoughts of Clara banished.

And yet, as he stared into the open dresser drawer, he couldn’t help but smile.

She had stolen all of his underwear.

Miles put on a pair of sweatpants, resigning himself to a day or two of going commando until he could replace the boxer briefs. But as he slid the drawer closed, his eye caught the old shoe box in the back previously concealed by the missing garments. The lid was askew. Had Clara looked inside? Did she discover his secret?

Racked with pain, minus all his underwear, and troubled by the prospect Clara had peeked in that box, it took him a full minute to notice the hulking man in the bedroom doorway, holding a cage.