A Harmless Little Plan (Harmless #3)(10)

I stare at the faucet and turn on the cold water again. I cup my hands and bring water to my mouth, wincing as scrapes on my face touch the cold liquid. Drew doesn’t have a cup in his bathroom.

Men are so weird.

I drink until my stomach hurts. Who knows when they’ll let me have water? Out of habit, I grab the soap and wash my hands again.

Why am I washing my hands if they’re about to kill me? I wonder, hysteria rising inside. Am I worried about germs?

We’re conditioned by life to think in terms of cause and effect. Action and consequence. As I dry my hands, I see the raw marks from the zip tie. My Band-Aid rubbed off. I spot the pinprick from the microchip Drew put in me.

Please, I pray. Please, God. Please.

I stall, buying as much time as I can in the bathroom.

And then Stellan comes for me, all dead eyes and eager hands.





Drew


“Jane,” I say to Silas. “Jane reported me. Mark said she reported my break-in to the police.”

At the mention of her name, he averts his eyes. “Yeah. We don’t know what that’s about.”

“I wondered. I’ve wondered if she was Lindsay’s informant at the Island.”

“We investigated that, Drew. Came up empty.”

“Doesn’t mean it wasn’t her.”

“You think she turned against you? You think she’s part of all this?” He’s incredulous. I’m pretty sick of people using a tone of disbelief when they talk to me. “She was the one who found Lindsay four years ago.”

“Yeah.” I give him a hard stare. “How about that?”

He shakes his head, his huffing laugh dissolving into a low, gritty voice. “That’s pretty hard to swallow.”

“But not out of the realm of possibility.”

“Everything’s possible when you think the world is one big conspiracy theory, Drew.”

“I have every right to wear a tinfoil hat right now, Silas.”

“What about Anya? Harry said she’s the one who told him that was Mark Paulson on the helicopter. Is she in custody? Being interrogated?”

His nostrils flare. “She lawyered up.”

“What?”

“She’s refusing to say a word without her lawyer.”

“Damn.”

“Doesn’t mean anything. You know how politicians are. Everyone lawyers up.”

“She sent Lindsay on a helicopter with the very same men who attacked her four years ago, pretending that it was Mark Paulson on that chopper, and you’re making excuses for her? Are you out of your fucking mind, Silas?”

“Just stating facts.”

“Facts suck.”

“Welcome to reality, Drew.”

“Oh, I’ve had more than my fair share of reality, Silas. Fuck off with the sarcasm.”

“The reality is,” he says, ignoring that, “Anya is tight as a drum. Senator Bosworth is freaking out, and everyone’s mobilized to find Lindsay.” He looks at the laptop. “We should get as much manpower on this as possible.”

I ignore that.

“I can’t believe Anya threw Lindsay under a bus. She had to know that what she did meant sending her to her death.” My stomach roils at the thought. A vision of Anya fills my mind’s eye. Cool, calm, implacable.

And that evil?

“She’s been part of Harry’s team for too long to turn on the family.” I fight my internal denial. I need to be clear headed and impartial. The only bias I allow myself is toward Lindsay.

“It’s hard to believe,” Silas says in agreement.

This is a distraction. I need to focus on action.

“We need to regroup.”

Silas says, “Jane and Anya aside, the question is this: how do we get into your apartment and rescue Lindsay?”

“We?” If my face didn’t hurt so much, my eyebrows would shoot up. “You realize this is career suicide if you help me.”

“Tell me something I don’t already know.”

Have I mentioned what a good man he is?

“What about Paulson?” I ask.

“What about him?”

“Where is he?”

Silas checks his phone. Taps a few times. Looks at me. “Still don’t know.”

“Fuck. If Jane’s in on it, and Paulson’s in on it, who else?”

“Throw in the senator while you’re at it, Drew. How about Lindsay’s mom? And me. We’re all part of it. Need a little extra foil for that hat you’re wearing?” He gives me a WTF? look. “Paulson isn’t in on this.”

“How do you know for sure?”

“How do you know I’m not in on it?”

“I don’t,” I hiss.

Neither of us breathe. One, two, three, five seconds go by.

Finally he shakes his head and slowly lets out his breath through his nose. “Then you have two choices. Let Lindsay die because you can’t figure out who to ask for help, or ask the wrong person and she dies, too.”

“Those are terrible choices.”

“Yeah. So pick the one that gives her a chance.”

I hate being wrong.

“We have to get her out of my apartment.”