“We’re watching you, too.” There was a pause. And then Blade’s voice came from farther away. “One more thing. The commitment you made continues after you stop breathing. So if you decide to solve this problem by taking yourself out? That’s another choice, but we will still carry out our end of this. Lydia Susi will die slowly and painfully. The only way to save her is to finish what you fucking started.”
Lydia looked at the clock on the dashboard of her hatchback. From the security light streaming in through the windshield, it was easy to read the analog hands.
Eight-thirty.
She looked at the iron gates to C.P. Phalen’s estate. She’d been parked right in front of them, directly in the eye of the security camera, for hours now. There was no way the woman didn’t know she was on the property, and no matter how long it took, she was going to—
Off in the distance, the howl of a wolf had her closing her eyes. It was such a lonely sound, and her breath caught as she waited to hear if the entreaty was answered. When it wasn’t, it felt like a commentary on her whole life. Always alone, always separate, even when she was around others.
Daniel had crossed that divide, though. But God, the damage he had done.
Trying to stay out of that abyss, she refocused on the gates. She had been so sure of what she was doing when she’d come here, and the hours of waiting hadn’t changed anything. Even if it took until the morning, she was going to—
All at once, the gates began to open slowly, soundlessly, everything well-oiled.
“Party time,” Lydia muttered as she started her engine.
Proceeding into the estate, the hedge of bushes locking her in, her heart started to beat hard. But there was no question about fight or flight. She wasn’t going to run.
No matter how this went down.
Just as she was pulling up to the well-lit house, that sound of rotor blades chopped its way through the quiet of the night.
Over the roofline, the blinking lights of the helicopter cast shadows and then a spotlight was trained down onto the ground. The aircraft landed where it had the other day, on the grass.
Lydia stayed right where she was. Those dogs were no doubt on the property somewhere, and in the darkness, she wouldn’t know which direction they were coming from. Although did the compass point really matter when it came to all those teeth?
C.P. Phalen once again emerged as the steps unfurled from the body of the helicopter, and as she descended and walked toward the car, Lydia replayed what she’d rehearsed so many times during the wait.
As the woman came into the headlights, Lydia killed the engine and got out.
“Well, if it isn’t my favorite lupine behaviorist.” C.P. Phalen smiled in that icy way of hers. “Sorry to have kept you waiting. I was in Manhattan.”
I don’t give a shit where you were, lady. “We need to talk.”
“Then by all means, come in.” The woman turned away and started walking. “I haven’t had dinner. Perhaps you’ll join me.”
Lydia looked across the front of the mansion. Lights were on in every room, it seemed, and more illumination was shining up from the bushes that lined the massive footprint. But she still couldn’t see inside, the diffused glow in each of the windows the result of that odd treatment over the glass.
She had a thought that there was a good chance she would never see the light of day again. She had no idea who she was dealing with anymore—and that included Eastwind. The only one she felt like she could trust was Candy.
And that woman knew what her job was tonight.
C.P. Phalen unlocked the door with that thumb of hers and walked into all that marble. “See, I told you the furniture was coming.”
Stepping inside, Lydia found that, yup, there were furnishings now, and surprise, everything was white. Just like Peter Wynne’s house. Well, not exactly. The sofas and chairs were silk here, the glowing sheen on the tufted cushions and camel-back contours a testament to everything an unlimited budget could get you.
“I’m not going any farther,” Lydia announced as the heavy door shut behind her. “We’re going to do this right here.”
C.P. Phalen pivoted around on her high heel. She was wearing yet another black suit with slacks, only the lapels and the detailing different. Clearly she subscribed to the Steve Jobs theory of wardrobes, a uniform that never varied.
The woman cocked a brow. “All right. Talk to me.”
“I know you were paying Peter Wynne. All those millions were never for the Wolf Study Project. It was for what you and he were doing together with Rick’s help. The WSP was used to launder the money, and you got yourself elected chair so you could hide the payments.”