Page 175 of Brazen Mistakes

Another, caught from a camera at the gate of the second house we hit, my manic euphoria visible even there, Jansen’s face bright with joy, both of us shrouded in shadows. Impossible to identify, but the two of us all the same.

This one, in our fucking attic, Walker and me in those gorgeous masks, a glass of wine in his hand as he sets it on the bar, the masquerade in full swing around us.

Last, Officer Reed at the front of the house, Trips, Walker, and RJ surrounding me. Exchanging that day’s Bryce photos between us and the cop, it looks significantly sketchier than it actually was.

His mouth twists, a malicious smirk, as he tilts his head before starting a new series of photos. First, one of RJ and me, wrapped around each other on the front porch. A photo that RJ would never want to exist, let alone to live in a safe owned by the evil before me.

Next, Jansen and me, dashing through the backyard, hand in hand, heads back in laughter. Innocent, light, honest.

Another. Walker, braced above me at the climbing gym, the photo close enough, clear enough, to read the tension there. The heat.

He pauses, victory in his eyes, even if I have no idea what he’s won besides stealing more of my security. More of my privacy.

I shiver, knowing it wasn’t just Bryce making me feel like I was being watched these last few weeks. It was a stranger at the behest of this monster before me, another loss of my safety, of my privacy, at the hand of a man who wants to shame me, to control me, to threaten me.

With finality, he tosses down the last of his photos, displaying that same dingy alley in Chicago, but this shot has Trips holding me, kissing me, bringing me back to the present the only way we could think to do it. Desperate, even in the harsh light of an analog security still.

We sit in silence.

A clock on the wall ticks, the sound louder than any of our breathing, but barely louder than the pounding in my chest.

The puppet master speaks. “I can find more. I’m sure of it. Was that you this summer at the Guthrie, Archie? Shawn Gleason might not be part of my circle, but even I heard about the unlikely theft of his GTS. Only that wasn’t your target, was it? It had to be something bigger, more valuable. If only those little boys this young woman beside you was watching had been better controlled, I might never have pieced it together. A mission foiled by a poorly timed fire alarm pulled by a child. Poor failed mastermind Archie.”

He shakes his head, feigned disappointment dripping from his gaze. “Stick with your fists in the future. They’re your strength. And I’d also recommend a nanny for the future.” He laughs, a mirthless sound, before turning his gaze to me. “A competent nanny, I should clarify.”

Confused, I glance at Trips, but he doesn’t look at me. He’s frozen, staring at his father like the man is hauling a corpse out of the slim manila folder.

How does Trips’ dad know about the hellions I nannied for this summer? About the chaos they caused pulling the fire alarm during a tour of the Guthrie theater at the tail end of August? Why would that matter?

I know the guys failed at some gig this summer. There’s no way my lack of control over my charges could have been the cause, could it?

And why would Trips need a nanny?

The second the thought pops into my head, my hands shake. Trips’ father notices, and he gives us a toothy grin. “I see you’ve figured it out. You’ll be so much easier to deal with than Trevor and that child. Yes. You’ve guessed correctly. Welcome to the family, Clara Grace McElroy.”

He pulls a box from his pocket, popping it open in front of me.

A diamond the size of my pinky nail glints at me, the cut clean and feminine, the band covered in more sparkles than I’ve seen on anything other than an eight-year-old’s Easter dress.

Trips and I stay as still as the icicles outside. His father’s smile grows, the show of teeth a threat. “Before you get to celebrating your glorious union, know that you’re mine.Both of you. No more side gigs. No more stealing from my neighbors. No more poker nights and forgeries. No meetings with the police. No moves without my say so.” He leans back, resting his thick hands across his trim waist, the illusion of a man sated by a good meal. “Oh, and Clara, no other boys. Anything you produce had better be a Westerhouse by blood.”

“Produce?” The question escapes before I can reel it in.

“Yes. Produce. You two will be publicly engaged, your wedding set over your spring break. And I expect an heir before the end of the year. A grandson to be my true legacy. These two boys of mine are duds.”

My nails are so deep into the arms of the chair, it takes Trips a moment to dislodge them before yanking me to my feet, our rush from the room only stalled by yet another statement from the beast behind us.

“I can be both a carrot and a stick, so make your next move carefully. Clara, you’ll be happy to know I purchased the home your parents rent. I’m sure a rent reduction might help those poor, ill-educated parents of yours. And if you cooperate, I will even gift you the same prenuptial agreement that Olivia’s father has been negotiating for her, minus the clause forbidding pregnancy while still in school. You’ll learn that Icanbe a reasonable man. You’ll have so much money, your poverty-laden brain won’t be able to comprehend it. And a name that will open doors you can’t imagine. Best of all, you’ll have the power you so obviously seek. So once again, take care going forward. The risks of a poor choice greatly outweigh the rewards.”

Swallowing, frozen halfway to the door, Trips’ hand sweaty in mine, his eyes dark with suppressed fury, I gasp for breath,not sure what to do, how to fix whatever the hell just happened.

“And Archibald?” Trips flinches, unable to bury his trained terror before turning back to his father. The ring box sails through the room, right at my face, but Trips snatches it out of the air before it crashes into me. “Make it real. Tomorrow. Brunch. No debates.”

Epilogue

Bryce

The party at this mansion on the lake is in full swing, but the security is absurdly tight. I can’t follow the bitch tonight.

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