Because It Is My Blood (Birthright #2)(22)

My cheeks burned with the memory. I was grateful for the low light.

“I am, frankly, amazed he resisted that long. Win is not known for his restraint. The boy is his mother—all heart, no sense. Alexa, his sister, she was the one like me. Brave and sensible. She was like you, too. Probably why the boy finds you so compelling, actually.”

I said nothing.

“So, to conclude. Every time the story of you and Win is reported, the media gets to imply I’m corrupt and the Sinclair people don’t have to say a darn thing.”

“But it’s over now,” I protested. “The picture runs tomorrow. And that’s the end of it. You’ll take a small hit and then everyone will forget about it.”

“No, Anya. It’s only the beginning. They will wait for you every day after school. They will try to get pictures of you in class. Your peers, because they are young and thoughtless, will find ways to provide them. Win won’t even have to be holding your hand for them to run this same story. He can be standing near you. He can be reported to be in the same building as you. This picture is a game changer, don’t you see?”

“But Win has a girlfriend! Can’t you just tell them that?”

“They’ll say that pictures don’t lie and that Alison Wheeler is a ringer.”

“A ringer?”

“A fake. A fraud. Someone my campaign has employed to make it look like you’re not with Win.”

“But I’m not with Win!”

“I believe you. And if the polls were better…” Charles Delacroix looked at me with tired eyes. “I’ve thought about what to do, and I could only come up with one thing that puts an end to this story.”

“Throwing me back in here? But I didn’t violate our agreement! And you can’t lock someone up for dating your son. I’ll have Mr. Kipling go to the media, and you’ll look like a monster.”

Charles Delacroix seemed not to have heard me. “But you have broken several laws since getting out of Liberty, haven’t you?”

He turned his slate toward me. First, a picture of me bartering with chocolate in Union Square. Then, a picture of me drinking coffee at Fats’s. Finally, a picture of me getting out of Yuji Ono’s car. The photo was time-stamped, 12:25 a.m. Past curfew, in other words. All of these were minor infractions. Unfortunately, I was sitting across from the King of Enforcing Minor Infractions.

“You’ve been having me followed!”

“I needed insurance in case you didn’t honor our arrangement. You are, rightly or wrongly, considered a delinquent. And, as you well know, the light, three-month sentence you received only holds if you don’t continue in your delinquency. If I put you in Liberty for a year, say, it solves two of my problems. No one can say I showed you favoritism, and no more stories about you and Win.”

“I can’t stay here for a year,” I whispered.

“How about six months. The election will be completely over by then.”

“I can’t.” I would not cry in front of Charles Delacroix. “I just can’t.”

“In exchange, I can promise you that no one will bother with your little sister, if that’s your concern.”

“Are you threatening me?” I asked.

“Not threatening, bargaining. We’re bargaining here, Anya. Don’t forget, I do have legitimate reasons for returning you to Liberty. Chocolate possession. Caffeine consumption. Curfew infraction.”

I felt like a trapped animal.

I was a trapped animal.

I wanted to talk to Mr. Kipling although, on some level, I knew he couldn’t protect me from this. I had been unlucky, yes, but I had also been incredibly foolish. “The election is over the second week of November. Why not let me out at Christmas? That’s three months.”

Charles Delacroix considered my offer. “Let’s say four. The end of January has a nicer ring to it. It could have the appearance of impropriety if you’re out the month after the election.”

I nodded. Charles Delacroix reached his hand through the bars, and after a moment, I shook it. My wrist felt incredibly sore, and I winced.

Charles Delacroix rose. “I’m sorry about this. I’ll make sure you aren’t sent down here again. I only wanted to ensure we were able to speak to each other without being observed.”

“Thank you,” I said weakly. But I knew he was lying. Sending me to the Cellar had been a very specific form of intimidation.

He was about to leave when he turned and kneeled down so that we were face-to-face. “Anya,” he whispered, “why couldn’t you have just made both our lives easier and disappeared for a year? Visited your relatives in Russia? I know you have friends in Japan. A girl like you probably has friends in all the kingdoms of the world.”

“New York is my home, and I wanted to finish high school,” I said lamely.

“Your lawyer should never have let you go back to Trinity.”

“Mr. Kipling didn’t want me to. Everything that happened, I caused myself. I should have been more vigilant.”

“Not the bus accident,” Delacroix said. “That was just unlucky. For both of us, I mean.”

“And especially for that girl who was killed.”

“Yes, you are right, Anya. Especially for her. Her name was Elizabeth.” Charles Delacroix reached through the bars to touch my cheek. “This place is run atrociously. There are holes. If you happen to slip down one in a week or two, I doubt you would be missed.”