The Girl in the Wall (9 page)

I change quickly and stuff my party clothes in the tunnel. I don’t need anyone finding them. It feels good to be in dark jeans and an old black sweater and it’s a lot more practical for navigating the dusty tunnels. I pull my hair back in a ponytail that probably looks like hell but who cares. Then I start down the narrow hall of the tunnel to see what’s going on near my dad’s office suite.

I sit for a few minutes, my back pressed against the cool plaster wall, but there’s nothing except the scent of a fire wafting in the air. Which pisses me off—I can’t believe they set a fire in the huge freestanding fireplace in my dad’s office to make their work environment nicer while they steal my dad’s company.

The smell reminds me of something I haven’t thought about in years. Once when we were nine Sera and I planned a campout in my backyard, complete with a fire in the fire pit where we’d roast organic hot dogs and make s’mores. But at the last minute it rained so John said we could do it in my dad’s office. We spread out our sleeping bags on the cream-colored rug and laid a tarp down to eat on. We stuffed ourselves, then snuggled into our sleeping bags and talked about what we wanted to do when we grew up as the fire burned down, the flames going lower and lower. They were typical nine-year-old dreams, like having an apartment together in New York City, being Broadway stars, marrying brothers so we’d be sisters. But it felt so real that night, like we’d really be able to do all of it.

And look at us now. I smile bitterly in the dark. What is Sera going to say when Nico approaches her? Is it going to be the thing that pushes her to turn me in? Or will she just laugh in his face? That’s not her style; she’d just politely say no thanks. And I don’t want to think about how that will make me feel. Or how I’ll feel if it goes the other way and I actually have to talk to her for the first time in nine months and four days.

I can’t sit still anymore, with memories haunting me and the minutes ticking down, so I head toward the back wing of the house, where my dad’s bedroom is. Maybe there’s something there worth finding. He does have a safe after all.

When I get to the grate in his room I flip open the latch, walk quietly in, and then stop short. His room has been even more destroyed than mine. His $5,000 suits are a heap of sliced-up cashmere and silk on the floor, the new one he bought for his lawyer’s funeral on top of the pile. His bed has been destroyed down to the box spring and it’s wet. A smell is coming from it, something acidic and sour. Did someone pee on his bed? That would be beyond vile and I breathe through my mouth so I don’t have to think about it.

I wait for a moment, listening, then creep silently out into the room, my feet crunching on broken glass from the pictures he had up on the mantel. I take the one of him and my mom on their wedding day and the one of him holding me when I was a newborn. My mom is the one who framed it but my dad looks really happy in it, smiling down at baby me. He doesn’t look like a guy who will end up going on month-long business trips six times a year, leaving his child with his assistant and a housekeeper. But pictures, like so many things, lie.

The thing is, even knowing this, I can’t look at the picture or any of his things too long. If I do, I feel movement deep in my gut, that primal grief straining to break free, to pour out in one long, endless wail. Which is not going to happen, not when I have Abby to consider.

I put both photos in the tunnel, then make my way to his safe. It’s on the side wall, behind a landscape my mom painted. That would be nice except my dad said the safe needed to have a painting covering it that wasn’t at all valuable because it would be touched. I remember how my mom’s face fell when he said it.

I’m not sure if there will be anything useful in the safe. It’s not like he kept a gun there because we had armed guards around the clock and an incredible security system. Plus my dad just wasn’t a gun guy. But maybe I’ll find some papers, something that will tell me who is behind this. The more time I have to sit and stew, the more I want to know who’s doing this.

I flip open the painting and punch in the code, the one my dad uses as his password for everything: Swann161. It’s for his favorite football player, Lynn Swann, and the 161 receiving yards he caught in Super Bowl X. This is the kind of thing you know if your dad is a rabid Steelers fan.
Was
.

The safe opens with a soft click. Empty. Someone got here before me, someone else who knows my dad well enough to know his code. Or maybe he emptied it himself?

I go over to his nightstand. The top has been swept clear, the lamp that used to be on it lies smashed on the wall. But inside the drawer there’s a business magazine and under that a printout of something. I pick it up and realize it’s the plan for my party, this night that has gone so horribly wrong. The first page has a list of scheduled events and the page underneath has details of who is taking care of what.

I start to read it more closely but then I hear movement in the hall and leap through the open grate, pulling it quickly closed behind me. I head for my room, putting the plan in my pocket. I should really just get rid of it since there’s nothing useful on it, but somehow I want to hold onto it a bit longer. I walk as quickly and quietly as I can. Nico will have told Sera by now and I need to get back. It’s not really a big deal if she refuses to help. How much help will she be, really?

But somehow I can’t seem to fully convince myself of this as I slip quietly through the tunnels, my heart in my throat.

“That was so weird,” I say as Nico walks away. My heart is settling back down but I’m still confused. What does he mean, I will understand?

“Yeah,” Hudson says. “Nothing about that made sense. And who’s Nico?”

“He’s the gardener here,” I say. “Or one of them anyway. He’s one of those people who always seems happy to be doing exactly what he’s doing. And he grows beautiful plants.” I think of the incredible hydrangeas they had two summers ago that were his pride and joy.

“So when he’s not participating in a hostage scheme he grows flowers,” Hudson says dryly.

“I’m surprised he’s part of this.”

It doesn’t fit with how I always thought of Nico. Though I guess you could argue I barely knew him. He could be a serial killer and I’d be the last person to know. Still, he always seemed genuinely nice.

“A lot of surprises tonight,” Hudson says. He glances out the window where we can see shadowed forms roaming about.

“Yeah, that’s for sure.” I rub my eyes. I’m usually asleep by now. “I guess I need to prepare a plate of food, whatever that means. Will you hold the phone while I go?”

Hudson shakes his head. “I’m going with you.”

“I think I can get food on a plate without help,” I say. “And someone has to hold the phone.”

“I mean I’m going with you to meet that guy. We’ll put the phone back in the sofa while we’re gone.”

“No. We can’t risk losing it or someone finding it. And he didn’t ask for you, just me.”

“I’m coming,” he says, and in that moment I hear just the tiniest Southern drawl in his voice. “And I don’t think we can risk having the phone on us. I doubt we’ll be gone that long anyway.”

He’s probably right. I tuck my hand in between the cushions and shimmy the phone out. But I still don’t want him to try to come with me, it’s too dangerous.

“We’d better hurry,” he says, standing up. “You have less than seven minutes to prepare that plate and it’s like a five-minute walk just to get to the kitchen.”

“I don’t want you to get hurt,” I say quietly as we walk through the living room.

Hudson turns so suddenly I almost run into him.

“Do you honestly think I’m just going to watch you go off with that guy who could do pretty much anything he wanted?” he asks sharply, then glances around quickly to make sure he wasn’t overheard.

I can see in his face that his mind is going bad places, and though I can’t imagine Nico being a rapist, I’m guessing some of the other agents could be. What if they sent him to get the nearest available girl? The Assassin said no one would get hurt but he hasn’t exactly inspired trust.

“Yeah, that’d be great if you’d come,” I say quietly.

He nods, then turns and heads to the doorway where we ask the agent standing there for permission to enter the kitchen. He grants it and in we go. I grab a plate and we pile on hors d’oeuvre, then practically run to the doorway facing the hall.

It’s been exactly ten minutes. A guard is disappearing upstairs and moments later another one appears. He pauses when he sees us, then hurries down.

“I meant you alone,” Nico whispers.

“I go where she goes,” Hudson says.

The drawl is there and his stance is no longer slouchy rock star. He stands tall, his chest wide, and I can see the boy who went hunting and took down a buffalo or whatever they hunt in Appalachia. Whatever it was didn’t stand a chance against this guy.

“You can’t,” Nico whispers, looking around almost frantically.

Hudson stands firm and silent, staring at Nico.

Nico lets out a frustrated breath. “Okay.”

He glances at the agent in the far doorway who is slouched over, not even really looking at us. I guess they’re getting tired too. We go out the door but instead of going back to the living room Nico rushes up the stairs. Hudson and I exchange a look, then we hurry after him, Hudson holding tight to my hand, my other hand holding the plate.

Nico walks quickly down the hall, his steps light. Without even thinking about it I realize I am practically tiptoeing as well. Why the secrecy?

He passes the first guest suite and the upstairs game room, then turns down a hall that is a little too familiar, with the red-and-blue Oriental carpet Ariel and I once spilled hot cocoa on—I bet the stains are still there, though Ariel’s dad never found them—and the series of Art Wolfe photos along the walls. There’s one of a leopard that I love but I don’t look at it as we go by.

I hope more than anything that we will pass the doorway on the left, the one that leads to Ariel’s suite, but this is where Nico stops. He turns to quickly usher us inside, taking the plate from me as I step around him. Hudson goes first, his hand wrapped firmly around mine.

The light is off but Nico comes in after us, closes the door softly, and then turns on the light. I see we are not alone. Someone is standing in front of the fireplace and when she turns to face us it’s all I can do not to scream.

It’s Ariel.

“Don’t scream,” I say quickly. I can tell she’s about to.

Sera presses her lips tight together and her look of surprise turns into a glare. “I can’t believe this,” she says.

Actually talking to Sera after all this time is making my chest all fluttery, like a bunch of feathers are blowing around in there. I’m not sure what to say and it all feels harder with the stupid rock star she dragged along. I take a moment to give Nico a look.

“What’s he doing here?”

Nico has taken off the ridiculous ski mask, and he shrugs as he sits down in my desk chair and sets the plate of food on a clear spot on my desk. My emptied out stomach growls but now is not the time to eat.

“He insisted,” Nico says. “Sera remembered my name by the way.”

I roll my eyes, shoving away the stab of guilt I feel when I see how much this meant to him.

“You didn’t remember his name?” Sera asks in that self-righteous way she has when she is being nice and I am not.

“Wait, I thought he worked for your family,” Hudson says in his Southern drawl that sounds fake, kind of like his stupid phony music.

I throw up my hands. “Really? We’re going to worry about me forgetting his name and not the guys with guns who’ve taken over my house?”

“People’s names do matter,” Sera says, not willing to just let it go.

I glance at Nico and am irritated to see he is grinning.

“Okay, I’m a horrible person who doesn’t respect the people who work in my home,” I say. “Forgetting his name was unforgivable.”

Sera smiles. “Just as long as you admit it.”

I feel a tugging in my chest, a feeling I’ve had a lot over these past nine months and four days, a feeling I’ve done all I can do to stamp out. Because I hate Sera and missing her is weak.

“Can we focus please?” I ask.

But now Sera is looking around the room, her eyes darkening as she takes in the damage. “They did this?” she asks.

I can almost see her remembering sleepovers under the goose down comforter whose feathers now cover the bed like snow. And knowing which pictures go in which frames even though they are now bent and mixed in with crushed glass.

“It’s just stuff,” I say, looking away from her. I can’t think about what any of the things on the floor mean to me, not right now. “We have more important things to worry about.”

Nico straightens up. “Yeah, we don’t have much time.”

“Time for what exactly?” Hudson asks.

He walks carefully around the glass to sit on the sofa, which has a few gouges in it but is still functional, and Sera follows. I stay standing next to the fireplace in case I need to make a quick escape.

“Settle down rock star, you aren’t even supposed to be here,” I snap. Somehow everything feels harder with him here.

But Nico gives me a look that says I’m being a moron. “The more people the better,” he says.

“The more people for what?” Sera asks. Her chocolate brown curls are starting to leak out of the twist she pulled them, the way they always do.

“We want to plan an escape, to get everyone out before anyone else gets hurt,” Nico answers.

“Says the man helping to hold us hostage,” Hudson says in that stupid Southern drawl.

“He’s working undercover,” I say sharply. “He was blackmailed into helping them and he’s doing everything he can to figure out a plan to stop this.”

Nico’s eyes light up at my defense of his being there and for a moment there is a spark in the air between us. I look away fast.

Sera nods. “That makes sense.”

Apparently Sera’s seal of approval is all it takes for the rock star. “So what’s the plan?” he asks. “Because I am done sitting around and waiting to be offed by one of these guys.”