Kovac leaned back in his desk chair, the middle buttons on his shirt straining as he took a deep breath, then let it out while shaking his head. “I don’t get it.”
“Toldja.”
“You did. And regardless of the alleged contents of this so-called letter—”
“Did you go to law school while Delaney was telling her story?”
“—you know I can’t take you at your word, right?”
“Yep.” Delaney smiled. “And you know you’d better have a D team on standby. Right?”
“Oh, come on!” From Rake, sounding equal parts exasperated and pissed. “Really? You two are gonna stand around talking about missing flash drives and allude to beatings? We don’t have it. So let us go or beat us to death.”
“Whoa!” Delaney straightened up from where she was slouched against the bookshelves. “You know there’s middle ground between those options, right?”
Kovac opened his mouth, but before he could answer, or order their deaths, or otherwise incite violence, they all flinched at the horribly familiar shriek from the other side of the door.
“Papa, ich werde mich übergeben!”
“The hell was that?” Kovac shook his head. “Jesus, that kid’s got some lungs on her.”
“Beeil dich, ich bin krank!”
“She says she’s going to throw up—she’s really sick.” Rake at once looked like all his systems were screaming threat level red, when the most he mustered for his own peril was threat level puce. “She wants me!”
“So go help her,” Delaney said, giving him a helpful shove. To Kovac: “That gastroenteritis is really getting around.”
“Oh, Christ.” Delaney could almost see Kovac working this out. Clandestine snatch = good. Private interrogation = good. Screaming kid + vomit in hallway where anyone might come in = not good. “Don, walk them down to the bathroom. Just the bathroom. And stand outside ’til she’s done. If the guy tries anything, open up his skull with the hammer.”
“Not the face,” Rake said, yanking open the door.
“Fine, plant the thing in the base of his skull, what do I care?” Then, as the door closed: “Now. What to do about you, sunshine?”
Fifty
“Okay, hon, I’ll stay here ’til you’re done.” Rake set Lillith down as the bathroom door wheezed shut behind them. “And listen, don’t be scared. Delaney’s got this under control.” I’m pretty sure.
“Uh-huh.” Lillith was—wait. Why was she yanking up her T-shirt? And exposing her little belly? And why was she tearing her belly away and handing it to him? And unzipping it? “Here’s Mama’s phone. Don’t worry, it’s charged. Call one one two.”
“Huh?”
“It’s our best bet. Dialing one one three brings the carabinieri, which is overkill—we need help, but not military help. And one one eight is for medical emergencies, which we don’t have. Yet. Here.”
Dumbfounded, Rake looked down at the pile of bills she’d just slapped into his other hand. “What is this?”
“It’s eight thousand, three hundred and twenty-six euros.”
He blinked at her. “What?”
“Oh, scuzi. I meant nine thousand, six hundred and forty-three American dollars.”
Like a cornered cat, he was torn between fight or flight. Within thirty seconds of taking Lillith to the bathroom (he’d scooped her up and sprinted, sure she was going to be sick all over him), he had a phone and ten grand.
“I’d better hang on to this for a while longer, though,” she added, showing him a tiny pineapple. Correctly reading his blank stare and rapid blinking, she plucked off the top of the pineapple, exposing a flash drive.
Of all the weird things to happen during this day in this weird week, this is definitely the weirdest.
“Hurry up,” she hissed. “We still have to text Sophie and Teresa our location. They won’t give us privacy forever.”
Right. Of course. It was gratifying to be able to rely on such a cool-headed leader in times of crisis. He hit 1-1-2 and in a low voice reported a kidnapping (it wasn’t, technically, but it would get the cops moving), unlawful detainment, and threats of felony assault. As he started to elaborate, Lillith chimed in, “Imi stanno spaventando, penso che abbiano delle pistole! E non riesco a trovare mia madre!”*
“Nice touch,” he said admiringly.
“And almost the truth.” She took the phone back and began texting. “They’re bad, but I don’t think they have guns. There are really, really unpleasant consequences if you’re carrying here, and I doubt any of them has a permit. Which lands them in a ton of trouble. They don’t have a Second Amendment here.” She chewed her lip. “At least not about that.”
Rake at last shook off his stunned apathy. “This is fucking incredible!” he whisper-shouted. “You’ve had the—and also the—you’ve literally had everything the whole time? All week?” He reached out and tugged the hem of her shirt back down; it was what she’d worn the day they’d met: I’M MY OWN SAFE SPACE!
“Jesus Christ!” he praised/hissed. “The whole time? No wonder you were always offering to buy me gelato!”
“See why turning me down was dumb?”
“I didn’t know you had ten grand on you! Wait, why did you have ten grand on you?”
Before she could answer, there was a brisk rap on the door. “How’s she doing?”
“Oh my God, the diarrhea and vomit are everywhere! Get a mop! Two mops! And the smell! Maybe you should get in here and help!”
“Pass.”
“See?” she said smugly. “We make a good team.”
“Yes, but that’s not news.”
“Yes, but I get the feeling you’re the type who needs to actually see something up close before you’ll believe it. It’s why I was glad when you got sick.”
“Um. What?”
“So I could take care of you. I know finding out about me was a nasty shock.” Before he could protest, she cut him off. “But I thought if I was quiet … and helpful…” All at once, the preternaturally self-possessed child had trouble looking him in the eye. “If I did that, then maybe you wouldn’t think it’d be hard to take care of me. You know. If I tried to take care of you.”
His eyes stung. Fucking allergies. Which had only now developed. “That’s—that’s not your responsibility, hon.”
“It’s not about responsibility.” Then, abruptly: “Did you mean it?”
“Mean what?”
“When you got mad at that man who tried to kidnap me? When you said I was your daughter?”
“You heard that?”
“Well. Thin doors. And you were kinda screaming. Especially when you called them a ‘grubby brigade of fucksticks.’”
“Probably shouldn’t quote me when I’m throwing around words like fucksticks, and yeah, Lillith, I did mean it. Of course I did.” He knelt and put his hands on her slender shoulders. “I know I’m a poor substitute for your mom and that you must think I’m a flighty, selfish jackass.…”