This Monstrous Thing(64)

I kept my mouth shut, hoping he would let me in on what sort of reward he had in mind, but he was looking at me just as intently, waiting for me to ask. I swallowed, then said, “What do you mean?”

“If we are able to capture your brother and suppress this rebellion based on information or aid you provide us, we will release both you and your father. We’ll give you time to get out of the city. No charges attached to your names. You’ll be free.”

My heart leapt, but I kept my face blank. “And if I don’t?”

“As a convicted Shadow Boy, the best your father can expect is life imprisonment. With the evidence that you’ve been helping your brother, I’d imagine it would be significantly worse for you.”

They’d kill me if I didn’t help them, that’s what he was saying. But they’d kill Oliver if I did. “How do I know I can trust you?” I asked. “You made some deal with Geisler that you clearly never intended to deliver on.”

“Geisler was a fool,” Jiroux snapped. “His bargain was a desperate plea made by a desperate man. But you will trust me for the same reason he did: because it is your only choice.” He looked deliberately down at the chain on my ankle. I fought the urge to look down too.

“How long will you give me to find Oliver?” I asked.

“Twenty-four hours should be sufficient.”

“A day? That’s it?”

“I have a sense you’re not as ignorant as you claim, and I hope that a deadline will encourage you to work quickly before the rebellion has a chance to act.” He crossed his arms, his eyes narrowing as he studied me. “I know you don’t think much of me, Mr. Finch, but I hope you can see that I am simply trying to do the best for the city I have been charged to protect. Surely you understand that your brother and his rebellion are a threat to the safety of Geneva, and I hope we can count on your assistance to see that the threat is counteracted.”

He was staring at me like he was waiting for an answer, but I didn’t have a clue what to say. It felt like a trap. He was asking me to choose between Oliver and Father, so whatever I did, I lost something important, and that felt so unfair it made my blood boil.

I had to swallow hard several times before I found my voice. “Can I see my father?”

Jiroux blinked. “Excuse me?”

“I want to see my father,” I said, louder this time. “He’s here, isn’t he?”

“He is.” He considered this for a moment; then he turned to the stocky officer still waiting by the door. “Go on, Ottinger, take him down. Five minutes, Mr. Finch,” he instructed as Ottinger came forward to unshackle me. “Then we’ll continue this discussion.”

My feet had gone so numb against the cold stones that I almost toppled over when I stood. Ottinger caught me by my unslung arm. “Easy.”

“I’m all right,” I murmured, stamping my feet against the floor a few times to get my blood flowing again.

“Here.” Ottinger cast a quick glance at the door to be certain Jiroux was gone, then bent down and unfastened the manacle from around my ankle.

“Thank you.”

He shrugged. “That way you aren’t clanking like a machine the whole way.”

We left the interrogation room and took a flight of narrow stone steps down. This was the police station, I realized as we walked. It wasn’t a proper prison, but there were holding cells below ground and the interrogation rooms above. And it seemed I was going to have the privilege of seeing both.

Ottinger walked a few feet behind me, and at my side when the halls were wide enough. He kept one hand on my elbow, but his grip wasn’t strong. When I looked over at him, I realized he couldn’t be more than a few years older than me—maybe the same age as Oliver.

Out of nowhere, I missed Oliver so badly. I wanted Oliver here with me, by my side, holding on to me and steering me the way I should go like he always had when we were young. Not the Oliver that had stabbed Geisler in the throat. The Oliver I’d grown up with. The Oliver I’d killed and meant to bring back. I felt his absence deep and aching inside of me, the piece of myself that belonged to him broken off and buried. I could have cried from the hurt of it.

We descended a short set of stairs that opened into a dark hallway lined with cells. Ottinger stopped outside a door at the end of the row. “I can only give you five minutes,” he said as he unlocked it. “But my watch is sometimes slow.” He smiled, and I tried to return it but I think mine ended up looking more like a grimace.

The interior of the cell was barren and dark, the only light coming from a slotted window on the far wall. Matted straw was scattered across the floor, and there was a wooden bench shoved in one corner with a ragged blanket draped across it. I stood still for a moment, letting my eyes adjust to the gloom.

Then, from one corner, came a voice. “Alasdair?”

I turned, and there was my father. He looked sick and pale, but he pulled himself onto his knees when he saw me.

“Father!” I was worried he’d tip over if he tried to stand, so I dropped down beside him.

“God’s wounds, Alasdair.” His hands were chained, but somehow he managed to maneuver me into a hug. It was the first time I could remember him holding me since I was a boy, and my body went stiff with surprise for a moment before I relaxed into it.