Pouting, I try on the shades.

  On the drive here, Vincent explained his basic plan for meeting Diane, which is to lie. He’s not sure if Diane Frankel is working for my uncle. So we’ll make up a story about how I’m sightseeing in D.C., and I turned off my phone. I’m eighteen. I don’t need anyone’s permission to go where I want. Then we’ll see how Diane reacts and ask her about my mother’s will.

  I want to tell Diane the truth, that I was never missing. That my uncle tried to kidnap me, and Vincent helped me escape from Mom’s house. I have a guardian already, and his name is Vincent Reed.

  But Vincent shakes his head again, holding my chin. “Briony, the truth can be dangerous. We can’t take the risk until we know what’s going on. Understand?”

  “Yeah,” I say glumly. I understand Vincent thinks he knows what’s good for me, just like my mother did.

  “Good,” he says, kissing my hair. “That’s my baby girl.”

  I roll my eyes, but I can’t help how hot he makes me feel. On our way to Diane’s, we stopped at a lingerie store where Vincent picked up new underwear for me. White cotton panties he put in my backpack. I haven’t changed though. I’m still wearing my old ones, damp with his seed. I like the feeling, knowing I belong to him, and it makes me feel dirty in the best way.

  “I guess I shouldn’t call you Daddy when we’re talking with Diane.”

  “Best not,” he mutters.

  “Fine, but you owe me an orgasm later,” I grumble before I step out of the car and slam the door shut.

  A security guard in the lobby bars our way. Using a fake accent, Vincent lies and makes up a story about how we’re Diane’s clients from England. We need to see her right away about some super important international case where billions of dollars are at stake. Let us through, Vincent says, or there’ll be hell to pay. Bloody hell. The guard looks about twenty and he’s shaking, but he asks for our IDs. Vincent raises his voice, slamming the front desk counter. He becomes so indignant he even has me fooled for a second. The guard lets us pass.

  “Don’t give me that look,” Vincent says on our way to the elevator.

  “What look?”

  “The look that says you don’t approve.”

  “Oh that look. I’m sorry. Good job, congratulations on being such a good liar. I’m proud of you.”

  Vincent growls at my back.

  We ride the elevator to Diane’s floor, then walk through a busy suite. People in business clothes hurry past, ignoring us, their faces hard and set in stone. Busy, busy, busy. My mother looked like that all the time before I left for boarding school.

  No one gives us any trouble as we enter Diane Frankel’s office. A middle-aged woman with red hair, she’d been Mom’s lawyer for as long as I could remember. Diane’s bleary eyes are bunched with wrinkles, like she hasn’t slept in days. We sit down without invitation.

  “Who the hell are you?” Diane says to Vincent. “Who let you in here?”

  Vincent hands her a business card.

  Diane’s face goes white. “You work for Garnet Baxter?”

  “Formerly,” Vincent says.

  I take off my sunglasses, and Diane holds her mouth. “Briony!”

  “Hi.”

  “What are you doing here?”

  I go with the sightseeing lie Vincent told me to use, but I can tell Diane’s not convinced.

  “Briony, your uncle has been looking for you. You have to go back.” Diane gives Vincent an accusing stare. “Why are you with her, Mr. Reed?”

  “Vincent is protecting me,” I say, tired of all the games. “We want to ask you about my mother’s will.”

  He looks at me sharply, but I glare right back.

  Vincent sighs and puts Mom’s letter on Diane’s desk. “Briony found this hidden in a safe at Amelia’s house. It’s addressed to you. It contradicts everything in the final will.

  Diane’s face turns ashen. “I don’t know anything about any letter. I never got it. The will is final, witnessed and signed. This letter is worthless. It’s not even dated, it’ll never hold up in court.”

  “The will is a forgery,” Vincent says.

  “My mom would never make Uncle Garnet my guardian,” I say. “She’s always warned me to stay away from him. She’d never put him in charge of my future.”

  Diane flounders, her eyes darting back and forth between Vincent and me. “Your mother put Garnet in charge of your inheritance, not your future.”

  “It’s the same thing,” Vincent says. “Briony wasn’t prepared to lose Amelia’s support. She relied on her mother’s funds.”

  My face burns with embarrassment, but Vincent is right. Spoiled and useless, that’s what I am.

  “The forged will,” Vincent says, “in effect lets Garnet Baxter control Briony’s life.”

  “It’s not forged!” Diane yells. Then she slumps in her chair, rubbing her eyes. “It’s not . . . ”

  “You must’ve known Amelia’s true intentions,” Vincent says. “You’ve been her attorney for years.” He stands, leaning over Diane’s desk. “You sold Amelia out, didn’t you? You helped Garnet forge a new will after she died. You’re in on it, Frankel. How much did he pay you?”

  Diane lunges to her feet. “Garnet didn’t pay me anything. He threatened me. He threatened to murder my family. You worked for him? Do you have any idea what kind of man he is? I had no fucking choice.”

  “You could’ve gone to the cops,” Vincent says. “The FBI, someone.”

  “With what? It would’ve been his word against mine. He has connections. He has power.” Diane looks at me. “I didn’t know that letter existed. I thought Garnet’s people had destroyed all the evidence. They ransacked your mother’s house before she was even buried.”

  Vincent and I trade a glance.

  “That letter won’t do you any good,” Diane says. “It’s a piece of paper.”

  “You could testify against Garnet,” Vincent says. “We can prove the will is a fraud.”

  Diane drops her eyes. “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because I’m not suicidal, Mr. Reed. I don’t know what you get out of this, but if you want to help Briony, do it on your own.” She looks at me. “I’m sorry, sweetheart.”

  I get up. “Why would my uncle do this?”

  “Good fucking question,” Vincent says. “Garnet can’t be after the money. It’s nothing to him.”

  Diane stares at us for a long time. Then she goes to a filing cabinet, takes out a red folder, and upends the folder over her desk. A single key clatters out. “Amelia has an apartment in Georgetown. The lease is under my name.”

  Vincent narrows his eyes. “Your name?”

  “Amelia wanted it to be a secret. I rented the apartment for her years ago. It was never declared as part of her assets. Garnet doesn’t know about it, no one does. Amelia wanted it to be a home away from home, where she can’t be bothered.”

  “I understand the feeling. Who’s paying the rent now?”

  “Amelia did. She pays for the whole year every January. Her things are still there.” Diane sits, writes down an address on a post-it, and sticks it to the key. “Search the place if you want. That’s all I have to say.”

  Vincent puts the key and note in his pocket. “Let’s go, Briony.”

  “Wait,” Diane says. “I want a word with her.”

  “Talk,” Vincent says.

  “In private.”

  Vincent tenses, but I hold his hand, and I don’t care if Diane is watching and figures out what’s really between us. Enough hiding and secrets.

  “I’m fine,” I whisper. “Wait for me.”

  “I’ll be right outside.”

  After the door shuts, Diane walks around her desk and hugs me. “I’m sorry, Briony. I had no choice.”

  “It’s okay,” I say, without returning the hug. “I know what kind of guys work for my uncle. They threatened me too.”

  “Guys like Vincent.”

  “No—he’s not like them.”

  Diane shakes her head. “He’s involved with you, am I right? Romantically. I could tell.”

  “Vincent saved me.”

  “How long have you known him?”

  I feel my face warm. “N-Not long.”

  “Be careful, sweetheart. Your mother left you two million in cash plus other assets. That may be nothing to your uncle, but it’s a good prize for—”

  “For who?” I snap, pulling back.

  “For many people. People who want to use you, for example. Just be careful.”

  I scoff, anger rising in my throat. “I trust Vincent. He loves me. I love him.”

  “Briony, sweetheart, you’re young and you think you’re in love. You wouldn’t be the first.” She shakes her head. “Just watch out for him.”

  I try to think of a reply, but nothing comes to mind.

  Chapter Seven

  Briony

  It’s late afternoon by the time we find the address.

  My heart’s been pounding since I left Diane’s office. I tell myself Vincent would never lie to me, that I know the real man, but doubt fogs my mind. Growing up, I always thought love was this overwhelming force you’d feel with the right person. The one. I know it’s naïve, but I never gave up that belief. Even if the world always showed me otherwise. I thought Vincent loved me. I thought he was different, the man of my dreams. But who is he really?

  He could be lying to me this whole time, like he lied to that security guard. He could be a psychopath for all I know. A gorgeous psychopath, but aren’t a lot of dangerous things attractive? Even my uncle is good-looking in the pictures I’ve seen.

  Vincent turns off the engine in front of an eight-story apartment building. “Here we are. Are you going to tell me what Frankel said?”

  “No.” He’s been asking me that for an hour.

  “Briony.”

  “Yes, that’s my name.”

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing.” I open the passenger door.

  Vincent holds my arm. “You’re lying.”

  “Oh that’s rich coming from you!” I tear my arm away and step out. “I don’t want to talk about it. Can we just go? Please?”

  Vincent stares at me. Then he rubs his eyes and gets the gun from the glovebox, tucking it into his belt.

  “What’s that for?”

  “Better safe than sorry. We don’t know what’s inside her apartment.”

  When we’re in the elevator, I cross my arms. “You were pretty smooth with that security guard.”

  “I’m a lawyer. Comes with the territory.”

  “How do I know you’re not being smooth with me?”

  Vincent frowns. “Is that why you’re upset?”

  “I’m not upset.”

  “Briony, I’m putting my life on the line for you. For us.”

  “How much are you worth?”

  “What?”

  The elevator dings, and the doors open onto a bright hallway paved with red carpet. Neither of us gets out.

  “How much money do you have? If you’re a lawyer you must be rich right?” When he still looks puzzled, I add in a quiet voice, “I mean, how much is my inheritance worth to you?”

  Vincent chokes out a laugh. “You think I’m after your inheritance, baby girl?”

  “Tell me you’re not.”

  The door starts to close, and Vincent jams his leg in the way, kicking it back. “I’m not, Briony. I don’t give a shit about your inheritance. You’re the one who needs your mother’s money.”

  I slap him across the face and storm out.

  “Briony! Wait.”

  “Which door is it?” I shout back.

  Vincent thumbs behind him. “It’s that way.”

  I rush past him, avoiding his gaze, and he grabs my waist, pinning me against the wall. “I’m not after your inheritance. Is that what Diane told you? The lawyer who betrayed your mother? I love you, Briony.”

  I wish he wouldn’t say that. The more convincing he sounds, the more worried I feel. “Let go of me.”

  He does, too easily, and he heads down the hallway. Then he looks over his shoulder. “Are you coming?”

  I turn my head so he won’t see me wiping tears from my eyes. Then I follow him.

  My mother’s apartment is just like her. Elegant and cold.

  “The fridge is still full,” Vincent says from the open kitchen. He sniffs an open carton and winces. “Milk’s gone bad.”

  We check every room, and half the time I expect Mom’s ghost to appear out of the shadows. Vincent tries to hold my hand. He wants to apologize, but I shrug him off. After a while, he stops trying and I can tell he’s frustrated.

  Good.

  We climb a staircase to a loft bedroom. The bed is neatly made. There’s a desk against the wall, and on the desk is a laptop. Vincent opens the cover, taps a key, and the screen flicks on.

  “No password,” Vincent says. “Amelia wasn’t expecting intruders.”

  Or my uncle to find it, I’m guessing. “How does it help us?”

  “I don’t know yet. But it’s a start. I need to go through the hard drive.”

  “You do that,” I say curtly.

  We bring the laptop downstairs and sit on the sofa as Vincent snoops through the computer. He takes off his jacket and puts the gun on a coffee table. I lean back, watching the muscles of his back shift under his shirt.

  “Find anything?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Look faster, I’m hungry. We didn’t have lunch.”

  Vincent runs a hand through his hair. “Perhaps you can contribute to our endeavor, Princess. I saw a bookcase upstairs. Go check it out.”

  “I’ll wait for you to do it.”

  “You plan to sit there the whole day?”

  “Yep.”

  Vincent scowls. “You’re more useful in bed.”

  “What did you say?”

  He glares at me. “I said you’re better at sucking my cock than looking for clues.”

  Fuming, I storm up to the loft and go through the bookcase. Nothing but books, many in foreign languages, and travel guides. I guess Mom didn’t give up her globetrotting after I started boarding school. She was always looking for new experiences, but I don’t think she ever found whatever she was looking for.

  The bookcase turns out a bust, and I rummage through a closet. There’s a big plastic bin filled with papers on the top shelf, but I’m too short to reach it.

  “Vincent I need your help!”

  He rushes upstairs, his face concerned, and I stifle a smile.

  “What’s the matter?”

  “Oh nothing. I’m such a helpless little girl I can’t reach that bin.”

  Vincent grits his teeth and shoulders past me. He takes the bin down and tears off the lid. Inside is a stack of papers.

  “More letters,” Vincent says.

  I pick up a page. “This isn’t Mom’s handwriting.”

  Vincent takes the letters downstairs, and we go through the pile. Mom didn’t write them. The letters are written to her. Most of the papers are yellowed with age, the blue ink faded. Vincent says the handwriting seems familiar somehow, but he shrugs it off. The writing appears blocky and awkward, like it was done by a child. Or, Vincent says, someone intentionally trying to conceal their hand.

  He reads a letter with only three lines on it. “Dear Amelia, under love’s heavy burden do I sink. Yours Eternally, Second.”

  Vincent frowns. “A love letter?”

  “It’s Romeo and Juliet.”

  “What?”

  “Shakespeare,” I say. “It’s a line from Romeo and Juliet. ‘Under love’s heavy burden do I sink.’ Romeo says that in Act I.”

  “How do you know?”

  “I memorized the play for school.”

  “Why?”

  “Cause my teacher said I had to, why do you think?”

  Vincent sets the page down. “All right. So your mother had an admirer called Second. Any idea who that is?”

  “How should I know? Did you find anything on the laptop?”

  “There’s an encrypted partition on the hard drive. We need to unlock it.”

  “How?”

  “I know a place, we’ll take the laptop there.”

  “What kind of a place?”

  “Don’t worry about it,” he says.

  We spend another hour looking through the apartment but find nothing else. My stomach grumbles and I’m tired, but I don’t complain. Vincent packs Mom’s laptop and those letters in his bag. Then he calls me to leave. I look around the apartment one last time, and I wonder what kind of woman my mother was. I realize I miss her terribly.

  “Briony,” Vincent says from the door, “we have to leave.”

  “Yeah, okay.”

  Vincent drives us back to Fairfax and drops off the laptop at a shady-looking electronics store. The owner, a skinny man wearing a tattered baseball cap, calls himself Junior. He looks like he should be running a tattoo parlor because he’s covered with ink. Junior knows Vincent well. Apparently Vincent is a regular customer who gets a special discount. Junior whistles as he checks Mom’s laptop. He says he can crack it in forty-eight hours. Vincent pays in cash, and while Junior scrawls out a receipt on the back of a napkin, I glance at the wall to see a huge poster that reads, No Smoking. There’s a filled ashtray on the counter.

  Junior winks at me, a cigarette dangling from his mouth. “I use the poster to keep ‘em confused.”

  “Who?”

  “The powers that be, little sister. If you have to ask, you’re probably one of them.” Junior gives me a sly smile and hands over the receipt.

  “I’m not your sister.”

  “Figure of speech, babe.”

  “Not your babe either.”

  “That’s enough,” Vincent growls at him.

  “Friend of yours?” I ask him on our way out.

  “Don’t ask.”

  I don’t even want to know. Vincent never struck me as the kind of man who’d have friends like Junior. It makes me wonder what else I don’t know about Vincent. What other new sides to Vincent Reed I haven’t seen yet.

  Doubt crushes my heart.

 

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