She finally gets her blanket situated, then plops down next to me—before her jaw drops. “Quinton?” she blurts out, scrambling to her knees again.
At first, I think she must be confused until the sound of two bodies colliding grabs my attention. They’re moving too fast for me to understand right away what’s happening, but soon it becomes clear.
He followed her. The son of a bitch followed her anyway.
And now he’s got Marcel in a headlock, cutting off his oxygen. “I’ll kill you, motherfucker,” Quinton grunts while they struggle. Aspen and I both cry out, but for different reasons, as he pulls the syringe from Marcel’s hand before plunging it into his neck. Marcel gasps, grunts, then goes limp.
It’s over. It was never going to work in the first place.
A gray-faced, sweating Quinton glares at me, Marcel’s unconscious body at his feet. “Now,” he pants, “let’s talk about your part in all this.”
32
LUCAS
For the second time in a week, a phone call awakens me. I fumble for the phone, bleary-eyed, having just fallen into a deep sleep. “Yes?” I mumble on answering.
“Sir, we have a problem.”
“What kind of problem?” I ask, sitting up, rubbing my fists over my eyes.
“A situation in the sunroom. We need you right away.” I vaguely recognize the voice of one of the guards. My alarm clock tells me it’s just past eleven. What could be going on up there at this time of night?
“And you need me, why exactly? Couldn’t this wait until morning?”
“Sir, it has to do with your daughter.”
I’m out of bed in an instant. “Why didn’t you say that to begin with? What happened? Is she all right?”
“She’s safe, sir, but you’re needed.”
“I’ll be there in a minute.” Fuck my life. When is this going to end? When will she be safe? I throw on sweats before heading out of my room. The door to the guest room is closed, as usual at this time of night. I wonder if I ought to let Delilah know I’m going out, but she might be asleep already. So long as I lock the door, it won’t matter.
Besides, I don’t want to lose a moment’s time. I take off for the elevator at a run, then nearly run down the hall when the doors open again. A pair of guards wait outside the sunroom, both of them nodding in acknowledgment before stepping aside so I can enter.
The first thing I see is the last thing I expect: Delilah, sitting cross-legged on a blanket I recognize as the one from the guest room, her hands cuffed behind her.
“What the fuck happened here?” Glancing around, I spot Quinton leaning against a nearby tree, a trembling Aspen in his arms.
Quinton jerks his chin, and I follow the direction of his gaze. “Marcel,” I grunt. He’s unconscious, his chest rising and falling evenly, his mouth hanging open. He’s sprawled out on the floor like he was already out before he hit it.
“I got here just in time,” Quinton says. There’s murder in his voice, though he sounds weak and looks like hell.
“What happened?” I go to Aspen, touching her shoulder. “Are you all right?”
“I’m fine,” she mumbles against Quinton’s shoulder, her face still hidden from me.
“It seems Marcel here had plans to inject Aspen with whatever he’s now under the influence of,” Quinton explains with a nasty smile. “I’m guessing that motherfucker has something to do with the fact that I’ve been sick as a dog since dinner, too. My theory is he wanted to get her away from me long enough to put that syringe in her.”
“But why?” Then, on top of everything else, the question I don’t dare give voice to. What did Delilah have to do with this?
“That’s a good question. Considering this one’s taking a nap, only one person can explain it.” He glares at Delilah, his lip lifting in a snarl. “But she’s not talking. Are you?” he asks her, raising his voice.
There’s roaring in my head. Heat spreads through my chest, tightening it and making it difficult to breathe. “Are you sure you’re okay?” I manage to ask my daughter, who nods without lifting her head. So long as I know that, I can turn my attention to other things.
“What do you want us to do with him?” one of the men asks, nudging Marcel’s limp body with one foot. I know what I would like to tell them to do. I know what I would like to do myself, and it involves sticking a red-hot fireplace poker up his ass—for starters.
But dammit, I have to think about the school as a whole. This isn’t only about my kid. It’s about Corium, and while there aren’t many rules around here, the ones that exist are firm. “I want him off-premises by the time he wakes up,” I announce. “He’s suspended indefinitely. And if he knows what’s good for him, he’ll never show his face to me.”