“They found her the next morning. I think.”
“They did not, Miss Bonnaire. Emily Medici is still at large.”
“What? But I thought—”
“Do you know who”—she looks down at her pad again—“the Associates are?”
“W-what?”
“She got a text from a number that came up as ‘The Associates’ in her phone.”
“What did it say?” I ask, my voice barely a whisper.
“It said, ‘Time to start a new book.’ Do you know what that means, Miss Bonnaire?”
I have enough sense to shut up then. And two more unanswered questions later I’m saying, “I think I need a lawyer.”
There were a few tense minutes when I thought they were going to arrest me or force me to go down to the station. Which is such a cliché thing to say, but whatever. They said that.
Then Hayes stepped in—he was never in danger of being arrested. Neither was Sofia or Connor. They only seemed to be interested in me.
But Hayes stepped in and started talking legal bullshit and a lawyer actually did show up, and then the interrogation was over, and they left, and now it’s almost dinner time.
“No one mentioned the book?” Connor asks.
We’re in Hayes’ limo on our way to Connor’s apartment on the other side of the park, Sofia and I on one bench and Connor and him across from us.
“I didn’t,” I say.
“Me either,” Sofia confirms.
“Good,” Hayes says, texting furiously on his phone. “We don’t want to mix these two things up.”
I squint my eyes at him, not really understanding. But I guess I get what he means. The new book. The old book. Camille and Bennett.
My eyes are so tired from crying. Why did this happen? Why did they do this? I will never come to terms with this day. Ever. I don’t care how many stories I write, there is no fictional plot that can make me feel better about the reality.
I want to ask Hayes about Emily but I can’t. I can’t deal with any more mysteries tonight.
“So listen,” Hayes says, his tone all business. “We can’t stay at your house, Con. Your father is there.”
“How do you know?”
“I have people watching it. He went there about three hours ago. But you need to go inside and put him at ease. Tell him the party is on, you’re gonna give the speech, and—”
“Are you fucking kidding me?” Connor says. “Camille and Bennett killed themselves last night!”
“I know that,” Hayes replies in an overly soft tone. “But you need to convince him you’re still on board with this Senate run.”
“Why?”
“We’ll get to that. Probably not tonight, but tomorrow at the party for sure.”
“I’m going with you,” I tell Connor.
“No, you’re not,” Hayes says. “The three of us are going up to your cottage, Kiera. Connor, get your father out of your house by seven and get to the heliport. We have things to… see.”
“See?” Sofia says.
Hayes looks at her. I can tell he wants to shut her down with a curt, Later, Sofia. But he stops himself. Says, “I’ll explain everything when Connor gets there. Just get rid of your father, Con. And the easiest way to do that is to tell him everything he wants to hear. Got it?”
Connor draws in a deep breath, lets it out, and then nods. “Fine.”
“Will we get in trouble for leaving New York?” I ask.
“Fuck them. We didn’t do this. But we know who did. And we’re gonna prove it.”
Before I can say anything else, the car stops in front of Connor’s building and a slew of security people surround him as he steps out. He tries to wave to me and say, “See ya later,” but the mob of tall men in black coats whisk him away before that happens.
The three of us spend the entire ride to the helipad on top of a building a few blocks away in silence. And that continues when we get in the chopper. No one even puts their headsets on to talk.
Hayes texts on a satellite phone the entire time, but I have no clue who he’s messaging. I’m too tired. Too worn out from losing two of my friends. Too afraid of what’s coming. All I can do is lean into Sofia for comfort and close my eyes.
Pretend I’m somewhere else. Like I always do. Imagine myself in some other story. Some other person playing some other part.
Live the dream and make it real.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE – CONNOR
The security detail isn’t quite out of the ordinary, but at the same time… it’s excessive. “Why are you guys here?” I ask, riding up with them in the elevator to my two-bedroom apartment. I don’t like to call this place home. It’s just an apartment. I didn’t even choose it, my father did. None of the furniture is mine and I have never looked forward to coming here after a long, stressful day.