Chapter 4:Mr Emotional constipation

The car ride lasted forty-one minutes. For the first thirty-nine, Adrian Blackwood said eleven words.

Vanessa counted.

"Seatbelt." That was one.

"Your phone is buzzing." Four more.

"Still buzzing." Two.

"It's the video again." Four.

Eleven.

Everything else was silence. Not the peaceful kind. The kind with a jawline.

She glanced through the rear window. A black van followed them, packed with her supplies. One of Adrian's men had gone very still while loading the twelve crowbars, like a person reconsidering a career choice.

At minute thirty-nine, she cracked.

"Are you going to talk to me, or is this a hostage situation?"

"You're free to leave."

"Then stop the car."

"No."

"So it's a hostage situation."

"It's a ride."

"You haven't blinked in six minutes."

"I blink."

"When?"

He turned his head, just slightly. His eyes were the same gray she remembered, cool and unreadable. "You look tired."

"You look like you haven't felt an emotion since 2014."

"I feel plenty."

"Name one."

Adrian considered it. "Mild disappointment."

"Wow. Mr. Emotionally Constipated has feelings."

Something in his jaw twitched. Almost a smile. Almost.

"You haven't changed, Trouble."

"Don't call me that."

"It's accurate."

She opened her mouth to argue and found she couldn't. She had, after all, just folded a man into a bag of chips.

"The invitations were already printed, you know," Adrian said.

"You're upset about stationery?"

"The florist was very upset."

"The florist can send me the bill."

"She sent it to my office. Forty-two thousand dollars."

"For flowers?"

"Peonies. They were out of season."

Vanessa stared out the window. "Fine. I'll pay half."

"I'm not asking for money."

"Then what are you asking for?"

His eyes stayed on the road. "Nothing."

It was the most honest thing he had said all day. And somehow, it stung more than the peonies.

At the next red light, he held out one hand, palm up.

"Keys."

"What?"

"Your car keys."

"My car is at the mall."

"I'll have it sent to the compound."

"Then you don't need my keys."

"It's a formality."

"It's a formality where you take my only escape route."

"It's a Honda. Nobody escapes in a Honda."

"That's rude."

He waited. Palm out. Patient as a wall.

Vanessa sighed, dug into her jacket and dropped the keys into his hand.

While he tucked them into his breast pocket, she leaned over as if to fix her seatbelt. His suit jacket lay folded on the seat between them. In the inside pocket sat one compact pistol and one spare magazine.

It was in her sleeve before the light turned green.

"Thank you," she said sweetly.

Adrian didn't look at her. "For what?"

"For the ride."

"Mm."

She could have sworn he was hiding something. Possibly a smirk. More likely a stomachache.

***

The Sterling compound hadn't changed. Same white stone walls. Same iron gates. Same cameras in every tree, watching like nosy birds.

Two years ago, she had walked out of these gates with a duffel bag and a very stupid smile.

Now they looked smaller.

The guards at the entrance straightened as the car rolled in. A young one peered through the window and mouthed something to his partner.

He slipped.

Adrian rolled the window down. "Not a word."

Both guards nodded very fast.

Inside, the marble hall smelled like it always had: lemon polish and old money. Staff froze as she passed. A maid almost dropped her tray. A cook peeked out from the kitchen, gasped and vanished.

"Everyone's staring," Vanessa muttered.

"You're famous."

"I'm infamous."

"Same thing here."

Adrian walked half a step ahead of her, like a man escorting a prisoner to court. Or a bomb to a shelter. She couldn't decide which, and neither could he.

At the end of the hallway stood two tall doors. He knocked once and opened them.

Victor Sterling stood at the window with his back to the room, hands clasped behind him. Gray at the temples. Shoulders like a wall. He didn't turn.

"You came," he said.

"You sent for me."

"I didn't think you would answer."

"Then why send Adrian?"

Silence.

"Thank you, Adrian," Victor said finally.

"Sir." Adrian stepped back to the wall and became furniture.

Victor turned. His eyes were the same shade as hers, and just as hard. He looked at her the way he used to read her mission reports: fully, coldly, and without a single wasted word.

"You've been in a fight."

"He slipped."

"So I've heard." Not a flicker on his face. "The footage reached my desk before you did."

Of course it did.

"Why am I here?" Vanessa asked. "You told me never to come back."

"Circumstances have changed."

"What circumstances?"

"That is not your concern."

Her fingers curled. She thought of Miriam's voice memo. Don't trust anyone. And the message from last night. I know who did it. Don't tell Dad.

"Where's Miriam?"

The smallest pause. If she hadn't spent twenty-seven years reading him, she would have missed it.

"Your sister is away on assignment."

"Miriam doesn't do assignments. She does spreadsheets."

"She does now."

Not an answer. Not even a good lie.

Victor moved to his desk and picked up a folder, as if the conversation were over. "You will stay in the east wing. Adrian will keep watch."

"Watch me do what?"

"Nothing. That is the point." He didn't look up. "No one leaves this compound without my approval. Not you. Not anyone."

"Am I a guest or a prisoner?"

"You are my daughter."

"That's not an answer."

"It's the only one you're getting."

Behind her, Adrian said nothing. Somewhere in his pocket, a set of Honda keys clinked.

Vanessa looked at her father, at the man she'd given up everything to escape, and a cold feeling crept into her stomach.

She had spent all night preparing for the end of the world.

She had never thought to check whether she was walking into a cage.