9
ELISE
Jacob’s textcomes in while Charlotte and I are finishing tea.
“He has her.” Charlotte’s eyes go wide at my announcement. Oh—that was a confusing way to say it. “Catherine’s with Jacob.” And not on her way to Gabriel’s brownstone, like I thought she would be. Glaring at the phone doesn’t change the words on the screen. “She’s with him athisplace.”
“That’s good.” Charlotte plucks my mug from my hand and goes to put it in the dishwasher with hers. I stand up too fast, almost knocking my stool over, and Charlotte looks over her shoulder at me. “Is something going on?”
“I need to go see her. Bring her back here, maybe.”
Her brow furrows. “It’s late, Lise. I’m sure she’s tired. What did Jacob’s text say, exactly?”
I read it off the screen. “Catherine is with me. She’s decided to stay at my place for the night. Here’s the address. I can assure you building security is top-notch.”
Charlotte closes the dishwasher and folds her arms over her chest. “All of that sounds good to me.”
“It’s notgood. Gabriel thought Jacob was our only choice for getting Catherine away from my dad. That doesn’t make him a safe person.”
As long as I’ve known her, Charlotte has had the most sincere, beautiful blue eyes. She looks at me now with the steadinessIshould have. I’m the one who was raised to be calculating. To put my emotions aside. To get the most profit at any cost.
“If Jacob wanted to hurt Catherine, he wouldn’t have sent his address and tried to put your mind at ease about security.” Charlotte reaches up and re-does the bun in her blonde hair. “And…you know Gabriel. You love him. Do you really think he’d ask Jacob to get her out of the house if he didn’t trust him?”
“No, but…”
“No. He wouldn’t.” Charlotte comes over and puts her arm around me. “Gabriel would also insist that you get some rest, and since he’s not here, I’ll insist for him. It’s officially bedtime.”
Charlotte takes one side of Gabriel’s huge bed, and I take the other.
I don’t expect to fall asleep. Not with emotions whirring through my body like my heart is a stand mixer turned up high. I’m beyond grateful that my best friend came here to be with me, even though she’s pregnant and tired and probably wants her own bed more than anything. I’m worried for my sister. I’m dreading what comes next.
Because something has to come next. My dad can’t keep terrorizing people. I have to be the one to stop him.
I’m genuinely surprised to wake up a little before six-thirty, a dream melting away before I can remember what it was.
Charlotte sleeps on her side, one hand under her pillow.
Another emotion enters the mix. It’s not jealousy, exactly. More of a longing. Not for me, for Gabriel. I believe him when he says he loves me.
AndI believe he might be better off with someone like Charlotte. None of her sweetness is fake. She didn’t pile on layers of buttercream to hide what she is.
The brownstone’s heat kicks on just as I sneak out of bed and go to check on Lydia and Nate. They’re both breathing as deep as Charlotte. The sound of the shower doesn’t wake anybody up, either.
Leggings. A sweater. Today feels too serious for a hoodie, though I’d love to wrap myself in flannel and blankets and burrow into Gabriel’s couch.
I twist my hair into a bun, then spend the next hour or so in Gabriel’s kitchen, drinking coffee and listening to the stillness inside the brownstone and the birds outside.
Eight o’clock is as long as I can wait.
Stepping out on Gabriel’s stoop clears my head. The morning air is crisp and clean, and his street is bathed in autumn light, and there’s a woman from the security team waiting with a smile. “What can I do for you, Ms. Bettencourt?”
I smile back at her, though my freshly cleared head has made room for more worry. “I need a car. I’ll drive myself.”
She doesn’tlovethat idea, but inside five minutes I’m in the driver’s seat of a company SUV in midnight blue, Jacob’s address plugged into the navigation.
I don’t notice much of the drive. I want to see that Catherine’s okay with my own eyes. At Jacob’s building, I pull up to the front and hand my keys to the valet. Desperate times.
A woman in a neat black skirt suit greets me the second I step into the lobby. “Ms. Bettencourt?”