Page 19 of Twisted Enemy
One hundred mill by June 1 keeps me from sharing
I tap the attached document like I’m signing a confession. A white page fills the screen, so bright I have to squint to make out the black letters. It’s an indictment for mail fraud, wire fraud, and a dozen other counts, all springing from owning and operating a fraudulent collection agency.
And I know exactly what’s behind the first redacted box. My name: Cole Plutus Wolf.
7
KATE
I’m standing in front of the refrigerator, wearing soft black yoga pants and an over-size gray hoodie. Rubbing one bare foot against the other, I try to decide if it’s worth the time, effort, and mess to make scrambled eggs for breakfast.
“Madam.” The voice behind me is as smooth as water over ice, but I jump nearly a mile high.
“Nilsson,” I say, once I can force a single word past the pounding of my heart.
I don’t have to justify being in this kitchen. That’s what I bargained for when I gave up running away, when I decided not to take all my meager possessions and hop a plane for County Donegal. I get this house and everything in it—including Nilsson—whether Cole is at home or not.
And this morning, he’s not, because he had an early-morning business meeting in Delaware. So I get to make small talk with a Swedish iceberg. A feckin’ Swedish iceberg who just yesterdayproved himself to be as proficient at wielding a semi-automatic rifle as he is at running the average over-privileged billionaire’s household.
“I would be happy to make you breakfast,” Nilsson says. He doesn’t sound happy. He sounds like a robot running pre-launch procedures for a moon shot.
“Not necessary,” I say, grabbing the first thing that remotely resembles a nutritious start to my day. It looks like yogurt, but the container is labeledskyr. This cup is flavored with pure manuka honey.
I pay too much attention to peeling back the foil lid. Scramble in the drawer for a spoon. Consider getting a bowl. I am not at all accustomed to having someone waiting on me.
But Nilsson is still standing by the massive center island when I give up and turn around. “Madam,” he says again. I’m pretty sure this time, he’s acknowledging my refusal of a hot-cooked breakfast.
“Look,” I say, my discomfort making me ornery. “This isn’t working for me.”
“Madam,” he says again, and now his favorite word is a question, just the faintest up-turn at the end.
“That,” I say. “Calling meMadam. My name is Kate. Please use it.”
“Yes…Kate.” He sounds like a snowball is wedged in his throat. “Is there anything else I can get you this morning, Kate?”
He strains saying my name, as if he learned it phonetically from a badly programmed online translator. I start to sigh in exasperation, ready to retreat with my…skyr. But before I can dismiss Nilsson and head down the hall to my office, I remember Idoneed something else.
I spent two full weeks in this house before Cole and I had our first marital meltdown. Most of that time I felt like a prisoner, like a parcel handed off from my father to my husband. While Iwas here, I mostly forgot to eat. I certainly didn’t come into the kitchen on my own, not for any meal.
And I didn’t take a single, solitary step toward figuring out how to operate the massive coffee-making machine that fills an entire counter next to the refrigerator. The stainless-steel hulk has three different nozzles and half a dozen arrays of buttons. I’m pretty sure it could generate copies of the Rosetta Stone, if I just knew how to use it.
All I want is some caffeine so I can make it through the rest of the morning. Therefore I’m forced to admit to Nilsson, “Yes, please. Some coffee.”
“Certainly…Kate.” I wonder how long it will take for him to melt away the sharp edges he puts around my name. “Would you prefer a single cup? Or a carafe?”
“A carafe, please. Black. No sugar.”
“My pleasure,” Nilsson says with no hint of actual pleasure. But he steps up to the giant machine and, with a fierce efficiency, sets a filter, grinds beans, and positions a sleek steel container to collect the nectar of the gods.
I wonder if there’s a Mr. Coffee locked in a closet somewhere inside this mansion. If not, I bet one could be delivered within the hour. I could set it up in my office, along with a plastic tub of pre-ground Maxwell House. What’s good enough for Da is good enough for me. And I’ll never have to deal with Nilsson again.
But the scent rising from the newly tamed machine makes my mouth water. It’s pure coffee, but I catch a whisper of chocolate, a hint of caramel, and a bare suggestion of peat. I’m willing to bet the coffee Cole buys is some of the best in the world. It sure isn’t something he swiped off the bottom shelf in a grocery-store aisle.
Maybe, just maybe, I can get used to Nilsson’s arctic presence.
Armed with a metal carafe and a large stoneware mug, I make my way down the hall to my office. My computer is waiting, exactly as I left it when I joined Cole at dinner last night. I type in my password, and then I stare at the screen.
If I were still living in Da’s house, I’d spend my morning crafting a new attack for the Red Cap Raiders. They’ve been the core of my online life for the past six years. I built the group, scouting out members in various online forums. I tracked them, tested them, and invited them to join my raiding party in the online game Winter Reckoning.
