“What?” she demanded, ready to fight even if it was a hopeless cause.
“No reentry.”
Con almost laughed. “Don’t worry, I’m not coming back.”
He shrugged and let her pass.
Con stumbled out into the alley and struck out in a random direction, wanting to put distance between herself and Glass House. She wasn’t sure who she was more afraid of catching her—Anzor or the pock-faced man. It was two blocks before she realized she’d lost a shoe in the scrum. Wonderful. She knelt to pull a sharp rock from the sole of her foot and then kept walking.
It was hard to admit, but DC might be dead to her. She’d learned as much about her missing eighteen months as she could. The story picked up in Virginia, so that’s where she needed to head, despite the danger. Could it be any worse than it was here? She didn’t see how, and anyway, she knew deep down that she didn’t care. The only question was how to get there. Turning to Jasper Benjamin for help had been a waste of time, but he had given her a certain clarity about the tenuousness of her situation. She wasn’t going to stubborn her way to Virginia. She needed help.
She made the call. The phone picked up on the first ring.
“Hello, Con,” Peter Lee said, sounding genuinely happy to hear from her. “How are you this evening?”
“Couldn’t be better. How are you?”
“Better now. What can I do for you?” he asked.
“Tell your boss I want to make a deal.”
“He’ll be overjoyed. I’ll send a car for you.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
Con woke feeling rested for the first time since leaving Palingenesis. It was a relief to be able to think with a clear head again. It was also a relief not smelling like day-old Ethiopian food anymore, courtesy of the best shower of her entire life. Seriously, whoever designed that shower with jets that sprayed water from every direction deserved a Nobel Prize. Even so, it had taken four rounds of shampoo and conditioner before her hair began to feel even remotely clean. It still needed the attention of a gifted stylist, but at least she could run her fingers through it now. Sometimes it was the little things.
She’d arrived on the island last night too late to meet Vernon Gaddis. Peter said he was an early-to-bed, early-to-rise sort of person. She’d been glad for the chance to clean up and sleep first. Now, she sat up in bed and asked the house the time; a cheery British voice answered that it was already midafternoon. No wonder she felt so good. As the curtains rolled open automatically, a lens flare of brilliant sunshine poured into the room.
Her clothes were probably well past salvaging—putting them back on would defeat the purpose of taking a shower in the first place—but Peter had told her to help herself to anything in the closet. What she found was a rack of women’s clothes, all brand new, tags still on. A pyramid of shoeboxes was stacked on the floor. Skimming a hand along the hangers, she realized that everything was in her size. It had all been bought for her before she’d even agreed to come. It was a power move, she had to admit, and decided not to dwell on how Vernon Gaddis knew her sizes.
Dressed, she went outside onto the balcony off her bedroom. She wanted to get a look at the property in the daytime. It was another hot, humid day, but a breeze blowing in off the water made it bearable. From the drive in, she knew the residence was built on the far end of the island on a talon of land that curled out into the bay. The house had looked mammoth at night, and leaning out from her third-floor balcony, she saw she hadn’t been wrong. Vernon Gaddis lived in a castle. It might be a very, very hypermodern castle, but its weathered black stone gave it an unmistakably medieval vibe. And even though Gaddis lived on an island with its private security, he had still built high walls around his property. All he was missing was a moat and a drawbridge.
Her stomach stirred angrily, reminding her that she hadn’t eaten a proper meal since yesterday morning. She asked the house for Peter. It replied that he was in the kitchens and asked if she would like to be shown the way. Wait, kitchens, plural? The house guided her, offering directions at each turn, although for the life of her, she couldn’t tell where the disembodied voice came from. It led her through the house and down a grand staircase to a marble foyer that reminded her more of a hotel than a private home. From the furniture to the artwork to the design, everything had an impersonal, airbrushed perfection. She stared up at the domed ceiling that soared forty feet overhead. A train-station chandelier hung from a wrought-iron chain as thick as a ship’s anchor.