Page 40 of The Tower

I close my eyes, not liking the way my thoughts are bouncing. When I open them again, it’s not me I see reflected in the mirror. It’s my mother.

I blink, and she’s gone. Just like the day she died. One moment she was there. The next moment, there was only the void.

A single tear trickles down my cheek, and I brush it away.

What would she think of me now, trading one gilded cage in a tower for another? Escaping one powerful man’s control for the lair of another who might prove even more dangerous? Am I a fool? A masochist? A naive little princess, just as my father has always said?

No. It was the right choice.

The only choice.

I hurry out of the bathroom, leaving that lost, uncertain girl to her own devices. Me, I’m going to get dressed, go out into the living room, and be the calm and confident woman I am. Or, at least, that I want to be.

I’d taken off only my leggings before my nap, so I pull them back on, draw a breath, then march out of the room to go find Grimm.

The windows in the open area are still opaque, but the lights are on, so I can easily see that Grimm isn’t here. I call his name, and when I get no answer, I consider exploring the rest of the apartment. But the possibility of finding him in some dark back room stops me. Instead, I head to the refrigerator for a bottle of water. That’s where I find a note that says only Errands. Back soon. LG.

It’s a strange sensation being alone in the apartment of this man who is both helping me and holding me hostage. A man who seems to know more about my life than I know myself. Especially since I barely know him at all.

Maybe now’s my chance to find out.

For the next half hour, I prowl Liam’s apartment like a caged animal, inspecting everything, searching for … what? Clues about the man to whom I’ve entrusted my life? Weaknesses in my new gilded cage? Escape routes I have no intention of using?

Or maybe I’m trying to distract myself from the lingering headache and the random tremors in my hands.

The apartment is minimalist but luxurious, all sleek surfaces and sharp angles. No photographs. No personal touches. Not even a grocery list. He mentioned a home in Connecticut, and I wonder if it’s warmer. The place he truly lives. I think it must be. Liam Grimm is a lot of things, but sterile isn’t one of them.

Besides, would he have left me alone in a place where I might stumble across a secret?

Definitely not.

Still, I’m enjoying my exploration. In the study, I find a bit of heaven—an entire wall of bookcases, every inch taken up by hardbacks and paperbacks, classics and popular fiction. One long shelf is dedicated entirely to leather-bound volumes of Grimm’s fairy tales. I’m not surprised—the original Brothers Grimm are his ancestors—but I am curious. I pull a volume off the shelf and skim the pages, quickly realizing that these aren’t the sanitized versions mothers read to their children. These are the original tales—dark, bloody, and unrepentant.

A cold recognition stirs in me. Children abandoned in forests, maidens imprisoned in towers, girls falling into voids to emerge in a different world.

Bargains and sacrifices. Just like mine.

I replace the book, then hug myself as I take two steps toward the study’s window. This one isn’t blocked out like the living room, and I take a deep breath, then force myself to move one step closer, then closer still, until I’m only three arm-lengths away. Manhattan spreads out beyond the glass, glowing in the approaching twilight.

The view is dizzying, and as the familiar tightness creeps into my chest, I clench my hands into fists and force myself to stay put and keep my eyes open. How much of my fear is real? How much has been manufactured by years of what my father has been telling me?

And does it even matter? Either way, the terror is inside me.

“Enjoying the view?”

I yelp as I whip around—my heart pounding—to find him standing in the doorway. “I’m sorry,” I say. “I didn’t mean to snoop. I was just—well, yeah. Actually, I did mean to snoop.”

“I see,” he says, his expression giving nothing away. “Learn anything interesting?”

“Your decorator likes contemporary. And you’re a fan of Stephen King.”

The corner of his mouth twitches. “Is that all?”

“The romance novels surprised me.”

His expression hardens. “They belonged to my mother. One of her friends sought me out and gave them to me years ago.”

“Oh.” I look down at the floor, then slide my hands into my pockets before looking back up at him. “Hopefully, I’m also about to learn that curiosity didn’t really kill the cat.”