Page 32 of Liar

“The Societies intimidated her into submission,” I whisper, but shake myself out of it. “No, there are a ton of other causes of her memory loss. And she hasn’t lost everything.”

“No?” Malcolm perks up.

“I mean—last night, at the meeting”—because Malcolm does know the Societies met—“she was there. We had to change out of our uniforms and into formal dress together, and she was terrified.”

Malcolm nods, humming in thought. “Which only adds to my theory. Torture.”

“Senator Merricourt finally paid the ransom. That’s why she was let go. The Societies don’t need extra money, especially from a member.”

“All smoke and mirrors. Why suspect the very enterprise that was wounded in the exchange? A clever ruse, but I would never expect anything less of Damion.”

“I—” I hold back my point. If I keep arguing for the Societies, Malcolm will no doubt become suspicious.

“If you find any evidence of Noble or Virtue involvement in Savannah’s abduction, you must bring it to me. Agent Colt and his team are primed for a raid of the Briar residence. I know for certain Damion holds evidence of the Societies in that manor. He’s held ceremonies there, challenges, and there are enough passageways to hide a damned body if he so chooses. He could’ve locked Savannah in there for as long as he needed to. I need to get the FBI in there. You’re the key, Ember. Please.”

Malcolm’s eyes are fervent, latching on mine like I’m his last source of water in the vast desert of his suffering. Warning bells clang in my head the more passionate he becomes. Obsessed. Almost unhinged with his desire to topple Damion from his throne.

I can’t bring myself to deny him. I know firsthand how devastating the Briars can be.

“Okay,” I say, lifting my head higher. “I’ll do everything I can to help you. I promise.”

Malcolm reaches across the table and grabs my hand. His hold is tight, warm, and dry. It’s also one of the rare moments we touch, and I’m reminded of how strong he’s managed to stay regardless of Damion’s attempts to cut him off at the knees.

If he can survive his losses, I can bear mine.

“Thank you, Ember. From the bottom of my heart.”

I hope my smile transmits my thoughts when I squeeze back. “I want to bring them down just as much as you do.”

But even as I promise it, the bottom of my heart stays dark and sharpened to a point.

Chapter 11

Thorne

Of all Malcolm’s transgressions, I didn’t think I’d become most pissed at him for glue.

Traipsing around the underbrush of Weatherby Manor changed all that. My hand scrapes against the gray brick, testing for the hidden entrance that I know is around here somewhere. The restriction of my access to Ember’s room rubs like a festering wound the longer I can’t locate it. I’d spent most of the early hours before school poring over the blueprints stashed in my father’s office instead of swim practice. I told myself it was more due to a reluctance to show my fresh scars on my back and think up a viable explanation, but I knew the truth behind my actions.

Ember. Always Ember.

I was damn well going to make sure the skipped training was worth it.

At last, one brick gives ever so slightly against my testing weight. I put my shoulder into the next push, pacing into the wild rose bushes to give me enough distance to run my side against the wall, heaving the makeshift door open a crack. It’s so heavy, I need a few running starts before a large enough space opens for me to slip through, then ram my back against it to shut it partway behind me.

I’m not worried about making noise. All occupants in the manor should be asleep on the second or third floors by now, including my little pretty. I’m also taking pains to keep my pissed-off grunts at a minimum, hating that I’m reduced to breaking in from the outside like a prowler. I much preferred the anticipatory stroll from my hallway to hers, with a row of wall sconces lighting the way.

The next sound I hear is the flick of my lighter against my side before I raise it to eye level, taking in my surroundings. The blueprints didn’t show much in terms of decoration, only the barest layout of a thin corridor weaving through the manor’s walls. I slink carefully along, heading west. I don’t use my phone’s flashlight because,if this passageway is anything like Briar Manor’s, such a bright light would risk showing through consciously placed paintings along the way, the canvas made thin to better to peep into the home. There’s a chance Malcolm remains nocturnal, despite the calming presence of his recently discovered daughter under his roof. I don’t want to tip him off before I’ve finished what I came here for.

The toe of my shoe knocks against something hard. Cursing under my breath, I wave the lighter lower, its tiny flickering flame illuminating a set of stairs, or, more like giant children’s blocks stacked as high as they can get.

I follow the flight, muttering under my breath when I stare at the ceiling. It doesn’t follow the height of the stairs. I’ll have to crouch.

Thanking my good sense for rigorous routine of stretching in the mornings regardless of making training, I crawl up the old staircase on all fours, using the heel of my hand while maintaining my hold on the lighter.

At the top, I stand, walk a few feet, duck, and crawl for ten more minutes, navigating the route I’d measured in the manor’s plans until I make it to the section of wall I need.

It requires the same push as before, but this time I’m much quieter. I press against the stone, heaving and gritting my teeth until at last, it gives. A long time has passed—centuries, probably—since this access point was last used. Likely when Weatherby Manor was owned by my great-great-great uncle, Thorne Briar I, when he and my 3x great grandfather squirreled around between their manors, concocting whatever nefarious schemes as the founders of the Societies.

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