“You can’t run forever!” she calls after me as I stomp from the room.
I wander through the house and end up in the garden, right at the back, dropping down in the grass. I lie still, trying to calm my thrumming heartbeat, and doing my best not to look at the tree house hidden at the very rear.
Hours pass like this until I’ve calmed down.
Groaning, my wound sticky, I climb to my feet and make my way back to the house. The sun is setting now. I ride the elevator up to Emily’s attic. She is sitting in the middle of the room, laptop on her legs, typing furiously. She holds up a finger as I walk in—one minute—and I wander over to the bed and slump down. I wait as my sister writes for about half an hour, finding the tap-tap-tap oddly comforting.
“Your arm doesn’t look good,” she says at last, closing the laptop.
“It’s bleeding a little, is all.”
“‘Is all,’” she echoes. “Dad used to say that.”
“Maybe he’s on my mind. Listen, what would be a good gift for Hazel?”
I’m staring down at my hands. If I look at Emily, I won’t be able to stand her proud smile.
“Just So Stories by Rudyard Kipling. She used to read it when she was a kid. She said it helped her get through her childhood. That would be a beautiful gift for her.”
Helped her get through her childhood? I make a mental note to follow up on that. In all that’s been going on, Nario has been too busy to get me any concrete information on her.
“Okay, then I want you to buy that for her and say it’s from you.” I stand up. “All right, Emily? Emily?”
I look up. She’s just gawping at me.
“What?”
“It’s okay if you feel something for her. I mean, you are human, after all.”
I shake my head. “Will you do this for me?” I ask. “Or shall I ask Mother?”
“No,” she sighs. “I’ll do it. Of course I will.”
I head for the elevator. As it slides down through the mansion, I think about those foolish words. I love you. Of course, today has been long, hard, and vicious, and it would mess with any man’s head. Killing isn’t something I punish myself for, but it’s never easy, either. It makes sense that I’d get confused and end up having random, pointless, crazy thoughts.
It doesn’t mean anything, I tell myself as the doors open.
It doesn’t mean anything at all.
14
Hazel
I sit in the corner of the cavernous library, letting myself sink into Kipling’s world. It’s the first book I’ve been able to lose myself in since I got here. But I still have to refocus my attention every now and then, stop it from wandering to two nights ago, to the Puccia Standoff, as I’ve come to think of it.
Emily acted really shifty when she gave me the book, making me think maybe Carlo was behind it.
But that could just be wishful thinking.
I killed four men today.
That should scare me off. That should terrify me to my core. But it was what he said about his friend’s widow that got to me more. The look in his eyes when he admitted that money can’t fix everything. That’s something Dad never understood.
I shake my head, forcing myself to read.
Then I look up to find the room has darkened. Carlo is standing on the other side of the library. His blue shirt sleeves are rolled up, his forearms knotted, his hair slicked and severe. His blue-green eyes are surrounded by the hazy outlines of bags, as though he’s been working too much. We haven’t spoken since Puccia-Gate (another name I’m trying out) but when we lock eyes, I know something’s changed. It’s like he wants to say sorry but can’t bring himself to.
“Your arm’s bleeding again,” I point out, placing my book on the desk.
He lifts it. “Ah, fuck.”
“Wait here,” I tell him. “I saw a first aid kit under the sink.”
“You don’t have to—”
“Wait. Here.”
I collect the kit from downstairs and quickly return to the library. He’s sitting in my chair, fingering the gilt edging of Just So Stories, a faraway smile on his face. That’s when I know for sure that he arranged the gift for me. Things are way too walking-on-eggshells between us for me to thank him, though, and I’m not even sure I want to after he went all crazy on me in the gym.