“You’ll ruin us. You’ll ruin everything,” she snarled. “I have this under control. I’m fixing it. All of this is temporary, a means to an end. And when it’s done, no one will ever know. So tell me, Margaret—what is your price? What will it take for you to bury this forever? Shall I invite the Bennet bastards over for dinner? Would you like a dozen of your stupid little charities to fawn over? Money? A title? Name it, and it’s yours.”
“The things I want, you’ve never been able to give me.” My throat jammed with emotion. “I want nothing from you right now but to be through with all of this. You have forty-eight hours to turn yourself in before I do it for you.”
It was only a breath or two, but it felt like an eternity. She watched me with such hatred at my treachery, her hands flexed at her sides, her body sprung so tight, I braced myself for impact should she launch herself at me.
But the tension snapped when noise rose from beyond her office doors.
Voices boomed amid the scrambling sound of people moving. Footfalls and clinking metal murmured beneath commands that came closer. And we turned to face the noise just as those doors opened with such force, we stepped back.
It was chaos in a sea of black, of helmets and guns, of bulletproof vests stamped with the letters F, B, and I. Everyone spoke at once, but one faceless voice rose above the others with a command for my mother to put up her hands. That voice stated her crimes, read Mother her rights as officers handcuffed her. Someone moved me out of the way, ushering me toward the door where Roland and Shelby were being escorted out, tears staining her cheeks and her hands bound. The open office was a tangle of agents, some standing sentinel, guns in hand as they eyed the executives filing toward the boardroom. The rest swept the space with carts, confiscating computers. And I passed by, my elbow in the massive hand of an FBI agent as he guided me to another of the boardrooms, taking my things before he left me there alone.
I heard her approach as they led her out, her voice shrill with panic and thick with threat, the pitch rising when she saw me through the boardroom windows. Teeth bared, she thrashed in my direction, the agents at her sides subduing her quickly as they passed.
Quieter came her voice with every step.
And in the end, there was only silence.
I sat in that room, crazed and shaken, my thoughts coming in bursts and frenzies and circles.
I had done this.
I had done this to her.
Somehow, this was all my fault.
And my mother had put me here. My mother had been the architect of it all.
I hated her in that moment with the whole of me, with a boiling of blood and a trembling vent of steam in my lungs. I could feel that hatred sink into me with a sigh, with hooks that held fast, hungry after being kept out so long by the virtue I’d upheld with the tenacity of Atlas shouldering the world.
Rather than shrink from that feeling, I grew inside of it, expanded and consumed within its hot walls. I hated myself. I hated the entire fucking universe and every atom in it.
I hated everything except Marcus.
Tears rolled down stony cheeks that belonged to someone else, hot as the betrayal in my heart.
I needed Marcus. And I was lost. Something had to be done, but I didn’t know what. I didn’t know how to feel or what to think except for one undeniable truth: Marcus would understand. He would make sense of it all.
He would know exactly what to do.
He would make this somehow feel all right.
Somehow.
25
Shadow self
MARCUS
“Oh my fucking God,” Laney called as she ran into the kitchen.
“Elaine,” Mom snapped. “Never utter that phrase.”
Laney was ghostly pale, and I leaned in, instantly alert.
“What happened?” I asked, setting my newspaper down.
“This,” she muttered, shoving her phone in my direction.
My hands went numb and clumsy as I took it, my eyes locking on the photograph, then the headline.
“Evelyn Bower Arrested for Suspected Embezzlement."
The photograph was as unflattering as expected—her face wrenched and mouth open as if arguing. I scrolled, skimming for details, looking for Maisie’s name, but only cursory information was given regarding the arrest. There were a few more photos, one of her assistant and another of her accountant per the caption as they were all put into marked cars and driven away.
“What?” Mom asked. “What is it, Marcus?”
But I couldn’t speak. I handed her Laney’s phone and swept mine out of my pocket to call Maisie.
“Marcus,” she answered on the first ring.
“Are you all right? What happened? I saw on the news—”
“I’m all right.” Her voice quivered.
I couldn’t tell what she felt, but it certainly didn’t feel all right.
“Where are you?”
“Nearly to your house. I need to talk to you.”
“I’ll meet you there.”
She took a breath but said nothing. The line disconnected.
An alarm sounded in my heart.
I stood, my worry a fine point. “She’s on her way.”
My mother’s hand was over her lips as she read. “Oh, that poor girl. Go, Marcus. Go take care of her.”
Laney nodded, her brows knit and eyes sharp with concern. “I hope she’s okay.”
“Me too,” I said as I passed, hurrying for my apartment.
I made it inside, poured myself a scotch, stood in the silence of my kitchen and sipped as I waited. Waited and worried and wondered until she walked through the door.
I moved to meet her, but she flew in before I could.
Broken. Everything about her was broken, from the curve of her shoulders from the weight of it all to the twist of her face when she burst into tears the moment our eyes met.
She was in my arms before I knew I’d moved to meet her, sagging against me, body shaking as the sound of her sorrow filled the room, filled my vengeful heart with wild fury at the witnessing of her pain.
I was glad Evelyn Bower had been arrested. God knew what I’d have done if she hadn’t been.
It was a long time before the wave had subsided, and I held her until she pulled away.
I cupped her face, felt the fever of her cheek with my palm. “It’s going to be all right,” I promised.
But her brows drew together. “Nothing’s going to be all right, Marcus.” Her voice was rough, raw from crying. “Nothing.”
She wasn’t wrong. “I’m sorry, Maisie. Tell me what happened.”
And with trembling words, she did. We moved to the couch as she recounted her mother’s arrest, the army of FBI, the questioning she’d endured, the lack of information they’d given her. And then she quieted, her eyes on her hands as they twisted a tissue, wringing it and loosing it so she could wring it again.
My fury never abated. It only grew.
I wished I could wipe this away. I wished there was something I could do, something I could have done. Because I would have done anything to spare her this final, most heinous infliction of pain. And it was all by her mother’s hand.
“They dragged her away,” she said quietly, winding the tissue up. “Th-they had guns, and she was screaming at me …” She watched the tissue open up, wrinkled and thin, but still whole. “They took her away. She’s gone.”