Page 37 of Brutal
I grab my purse and walk to the lot a block away where my car is. Owning a car in New York City is expensive, which is one of the reasons my apartment is so small. Another reason is that all the apartments in New York are small unless you can afford ten grand or more a month. I’ve found it useful to have a car when I need to drive upstate for research and interviews.
And today I want to be able to arrive and leave when I want.
The drive out of the city is pleasant. Driving is always pleasant once you’re out of the city proper. The address isn’t difficult to find. Men like Samson Vexley don’t need to hide where they live. They know they’re outside your reach already.
The gates are black iron. I tighten my grip on the steering wheel as I slow the car. A pattern woven into the design of the gate becomes clear.
A key. One of those old-fashioned skeleton keys that’s long and narrow with uneven teeth.
I roll down the window as I pull up to the call box. A camera sits above it. I expected nothing less from the Vexleys. I press the button.
“Yes?” a voice says.
“Delaney Cross,” I say without hesitation. “I’m here to see Mr. Vexley.”
A pause. Then, “Mr. Arthur Vexley?”
Samson’s father. No. Not him. “Mr. Samson Vexley,” I say.
I don’t fidget. I don’t shift in my seat. If they’re watching me—and they are—they won’t see anything but patience.
“Just a moment please.”
A minute passes. Then another.
Until I hear a soft click.
The gates open and I pull through. The driveway is longer than I expect. Fine gravel crunches under my tires until the house appears.
And for a moment, I forget how to breathe.
It’s not just large.
It’s magnificent.
Gray stone, glass, and iron put together in a way that makes it one of the most beautiful yet frightening residences I’ve ever seen.
I park where the drive curves near the entrance and step out of the car. I inhale. The air is a little cooler here. A little heavier.
I close the door behind me and take a second to steady myself before I walk toward the front entrance.
Up close, the details sharpen.
The ironwork repeats itself in smaller elements—railings, fixtures, accents that echo the same pattern I saw at the gate.
The key.
Again.
I follow it along a section of carved stone near the entryway. Is it some kind of insignia? A signature? A mark?
The door opens before I can reach for the handle.
A man in a dark suit stands just inside, his posture straight, his expression neutral. “Ms. Cross.”
British accent, of course.
“Good morning,” I say.
