Constance (Constance #1)(75)

“Hey, you kidnapped me.”

“Well, as the facts will bear out, I did not.”

“Those assholes had CoA tattoos. That means they answer to you.”

Butler laughed derisively. “Were it only that cut and dried. Were you hurt or mistreated in any way?”

That was an unexpected question. Beneath his bluster, though, she thought he seemed on edge. Nervous. It made her curious but wary. “Apart from the kidnapping?”

“Apart from that,” he allowed.

“No,” she said. “But I could eat.”

“So could I, now that you mention it.” Butler took a handkerchief from his pocket and unfolded it on the table. Almonds spilled out. He picked one out and popped it into his mouth. “Please. Be my guest.”

She left them untouched.

“If I meant you any harm, you’d already be harmed,” he said, managing to sound offended that his grand gesture had been rebuffed.

She took one and made a show of eating it. “There. Happy?”

“Ecstatic.”

“Why am I here?” she asked a second time.

“The reason you are here and not hanging from a tree the way Big John intends is that, an hour ago, I received a message from the CoA’s largest single donor requesting that I personally intercede to prevent anything drastic from occurring to you. You’re welcome, by the way. This donor has always insisted on absolute discretion and anonymity. I’ve never met them nor know their identity. Given the generosity of the sums involved, I was perfectly content with the arrangement since, until now, he or she never asked for any considerations. Well, I am no longer content.”

“What do you want from me? I don’t know who your investor is,” Con said, although she wondered if that was true.

“Vernon Gaddis has taken quite an interest in you.”

“You think your anonymous investor is Vernon Gaddis? That’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard. He hates the CoA with a passion.”

“And we, him,” Butler confirmed. “But humor me. Vernon Gaddis has already ridden to your rescue once, yes? Swooping in like some medieval knight-errant at your hour of greatest need. Honestly, the whole thing should come with its own classical score. Why wouldn’t he do it again? Or do you have another wealthy benefactor I should know about?”

“He’s not my benefactor,” Con said, careful not to mention Brooke Fenton, who would only incite Butler’s worst impulses. In the last few years, Butler had spun out one conspiracy theory after another detailing the sinister motives behind the existence of clones. His followers ate it up—the more outlandish, the better. What would happen if a natural-born conspiracy-monger learned that her head contained Abigail Stickling’s lost research? What wouldn’t he do to keep it away from either Vernon Gaddis or Brooke Fenton?

“Out of curiosity, why is Gaddis underwriting your little tour of Virginia?”

“Abigail Stickling was my aunt,” she said, hoping the revelation would satisfy him. While what she wanted to ask was how the hell he knew so much about it.

“Yes, I know,” Butler replied. “The problem with that explanation is that he despised Abigail Stickling. And she him.”

“What?” Con said, unable to hide her surprise.

“Oh yes, the story goes they fought like cats and dogs. Especially in the last few years. Differing visions for the future of Palingenesis. Your aunt forced the board to choose between them, and they wisely sided with her. Money is easy to come by, you see, but genius . . . well, you can’t simply fundraise genius. So, the board elected to ride with the one who got them there and gave her absolute control over the research division. Gaddis was legendarily bitter about it. Being outmaneuvered by a lab coat with no interest in politics or people was not an easy pill for a narcist to swallow, I’d imagine.”

That was not at all the impression Gaddis had given her. He’d painted himself as her aunt’s one true ally at Palingenesis and cast Brooke Fenton as the enemy. Once again, Con found herself questioning all of her assumptions. She also saw why Butler had been such a magnetic young professor. The trick, she realized, was that he hadn’t come straight out and said it, instead teasing at an answer while gently scoffing at more straightforward explanations, implying that only a fool would be taken in so simply. But that was Butler’s gift—making people question themselves and persuading them to accept his viewpoint as their own. He’d built two careers on it.

“I didn’t know that,” she said.

“Why would you?” Butler asked. “It’s hardly the image Palingenesis wishes to project. But don’t tell me Vernon Gaddis risked crossing into Virginia out of loyalty to the memory of Abigail Stickling.”

“Look, I’m just trying to figure out what happened to my original. That’s all.”

“Ah yes, your original. Another thorny question. Why do you think Constance D’Arcy was murdered?” Butler asked. “The prevailing theory is that the husband did it, jealous of her infidelity. It’s at least plausible. Husbands murdering wives is a cottage industry in this country, but the four dead bodies in Charlottesville suggest there’s more to it than that.”

“Why? CoA put them there,” Con shot back.

“No, Big John was just hired to clean up.”