Page 14 of Twisted Enemy
“Kate?” Granny asks, and I know from her tone she’s already said my name at least once.
In the photo, Breagha and I have Easter baskets at our feet. Breagha’s is overflowing with brightly colored eggs because I gave her half of mine. I’ve always loved my sister, from the moment Mam came home from hospital with a blanket-wrapped bundle I wasn’t allowed to touch.
So I can’t understand the enmity between Cole and Megan, his banishing her this morning. I literally cannot imagine cutting off my sister the way he did his.
“Sorry,” I say, before Granny needs to say my name again. “I was thinking.”
She indulges me with a smile. “I was saying Mrs. Watson has lunch on the table. Will you join us?”
I sit with my grandmother and her nurse, and we talk about songbirds in the backyard and new shows on television and favorite meals we’ve enjoyed in the past. The Bad Men stay very far away.
Granny is yawning by the time we finish our meal, so I let Mrs. Watson order me back across the street. Back in the main house, I spend the afternoon in my office.
My office.
I’ve never had one before. In Da’s house, I worked in my bedroom, spending most of my time sitting cross-legged on my narrow bed. The first two weeks here, I carried my laptop from room to room, knowing every keystroke was being monitored by Cole. When I fled, I used my cheap, anonymous machine in a dismal motel room.
Now, my desk has a sweeping view of the garden. My chair feels like it was molded for my body. My computer is centered on a leather blotter, displayed like a feckin’ work of art.
Cole did this for me. He gave me the one thing that was guaranteed to heal the wounds he inflicted—the finest technology his fortune could provide and the means to keep my work secret. Cole built an entire computer network for me to manage, where I’m the only superuser and I have absolute control.
I made him leave the room when I set my password: Iri$hQu3enMebh!
Granny used to tell me bedtime stories about Mebh. The legendary queen was strong. Ambitious. Cunning. A perfect role model for an Irish mob princess like me.
Grinning, I type my new password, and my computer flashes to life. I start to explore with caution, taking my time to think through every decision as I build the computer network of my dreams.
This is the best machine I’ve ever owned. It’s fast and it’s stable and there’s no command I type that even makes it hesitate. Applying encryption, I bring in everything that’s ever mattered to me online—old journals and current bank accounts and an entire library of coding snippets I can use to build new projects.
I’m startled when Cole appears in the doorway at six. “Dinnertime,” he says.
Holding up a finger, I buy an extra thirty seconds to finish a tricky bit of code. He waits with surprising patience, an amused smile quirking his lips. After closing my laptop with a click, I climb to my feet.
It’s been a mistake, not taking a break during the afternoon. My body—already sore from my exertions down in the dungeon—has grown stiff from hours of sitting. I wince as I roll myshoulders and when I cross the room, I look like I’m auditioning for the role of Frankenstein’s monster.
Offering a surprisingly sympathetic smile, Cole brushes his lips against mine. “You had a good afternoon?” he asks, before he leads the way down the hall.
“The best,” I say. I’m surprised to realize that’s the truth, after the way our day began.
Cole holds my chair in the dining room, and suddenly everything is simple. We’re a newly married couple, sharing a meal after a long day’s work. I ask my husband about his afternoon. I tell him about my lunch with Granny. We talk about his upcoming business trip, the drive he’ll make to Dover in the morning.
When we’re through eating our poached salmon and sautéed spring vegetables, Anna clears our plates. Then she leaves for the evening, heading across the street to eat her own meal and spend time with her own husband.
I want this easy evening to last forever. But I know Pyotr Tarasov has made that impossible.
Cole crosses to the sideboard and pours himself a brandy. I accept a glass of port, but I barely sip at it. I want a clear head for the discussion we’re about to have.
“I’m sorry,” I say, once Cole returns to his seat beside me.
He sets down his snifter with a decisive flex of his wrists. Our idle dinner chatter didn’t soften him one bit. “Go on,” he says, with the wariness of a wild animal sniffing fire on the wind.
“You gave me security credentials for the gate two days ago. And the first thing I did was let a madman into our lives.”
“That wasn’t your fault.” His tone is perfectly flat.
“I opened the gate.” The simple statement has me breathing fast. My heart feels like it’s trying to batter my breastbone into dust.
“You were conned.”
