over the other and turn myself at an angle to lean my wrists on the desk. “Truthfully,” I murmur with sunshine cheerfulness, “I couldn’t tell you the specifics—my father rarely tells me his secrets. But when he barks out an order, I always hop to obey.” I sweep a pointed glance over the cramped office behind her. “Isn’t that the way of things, though?”
Her narrowed gaze doesn’t falter. “I’m not sure what you mean, Miss Carrigan.”
My smile says of course you do. My next statement, however, is carefully bland: “A woman like you maintaining order in a place like this?” I lift my shoulder in a delicate shrug. “You’re so lucky to have someone like Kathryn as Broadmoor’s director. I’m sure she appreciates everything you do.” More so than my father does for me goes unspoken.
It’s enough gentle praise that Mary perks up in her seat. “She does. Mrs. Levell does, I mean. Do you know her well?”
Not anymore.
I left this world behind without a single regret. Grasped the tattered shell of my life and rose to stand on my own, breaking and molding my spine until the woman who peered back at me in the mirror recognized only one strength: complete and utter independence.
Smoothing a palm over the desk, I deliberately keep my tone blasé when I murmur, “We’ve crossed paths over the years.” A small pause, and then, “I hope you can understand that I’m working with a time sensitive matter. My father”—I tip my wrist over in a motion that’s synonymous with what can you do?—“is adamant that I bring him Robert Guthram.”
Mary’s chin jerks back. “Guthram? But the man . . . the man’s been here for nearly ten years!”
“Your guess is as good as mine.” I lift both hands, palms to the ceiling. Helpless. Ignorant. Break for me, Mary. “Honestly, sending me of all people screams desperation—I mean, the man could be downright mad. I’ve only my driver out front to make sure that I get back to London in one piece.”
“He’s not . . . that is to say, Mr. Guthram is a special case.”
Bloody hell. Special how?
“And it doesn’t matter, anyway,” Mary continues, “because you aren’t authorized to take him from Broadmoor.”
Sending up a little prayer of hope, I sink one hand into my handbag and grab the burner phone. Place it flat on the desk like a bomb ready to explode. “I’ll ring Kathryn if you need the reassurance.”
“Well, I don’t think that’s—”
“But I can promise you that the prime minister is very thorough. He wouldn’t send me here only to have me return empty-handed.”
Her gaze swings from my face to the computer. “His son is his legal executor. Marcus Guthram is the commissioner for the Metropolitan Police, you know.” When I only smile at her, patient to the bone, she worries the keyboard’s wire. “Let me just . . .”
Unease swims in my gut.
Forcing my shoulders to remain loose is a burden all on its own, and I fight the urge to peer down at the poppy pinned to my jumper. Is Damien watching us now? Listening? Do not look, Rowan. Do not give yourself away. I’m so close. Mary holds the proverbial keys and—
Sirens the likes of which I’ve never heard erupt over the loudspeakers.
They wail like the banshees of hell, so loud, so piercing, that bile rises in my throat and my palms turn damp with perspiration. Behind me, armed guards take to the hall, marching two in a row. I see their bodies form a line through the blue-tinted lens of Mary’s glasses.
When I sink down into my seat, she sends a disapproving glance my way. “As the prime minister’s daughter, Miss Carrigan, I’m sure you can appreciate our need for caution. It’s routine procedure. No need to look so repulsed.”
It’s not repulsion—it’s bloody fear.
If Broadmoor’s patients require armored guards to watch their every move, I’m terrified to think of what will become of me when I plant myself in the path of Robert Guthram.
“You’re doing a wonderful job here,” is the only reply I can summon when my ears are ringing from the unrelenting sirens. Good God, I’m two seconds away from vomiting all over Mary’s pristine desk. “It’s just . . . inspiring to see such unity nowadays.”
Her stiff nod barely indicates approval.
She taps away, unperturbed by the scene before her, and then her expression twists. Leaning forward with one elbow on the desk, she double-clicks the mouse. “I don’t . . .” Removing her glasses,