Page 77 of Purchased

“She may not come after you with violence. Don’t forget the string of murders nobody has paid for. You are vulnerable on a range of fronts.”

He dismisses that almost immediately, as if it’s absolutely nothing.

“Pack justice is always rough. Her husband challenged me and lost, fair and square. He was a hapless, bloated old sop who thought he could talk to me as he pleased. He was wrong.”

Armand is so close to being a good person sometimes, but is also a thousand years away from it right now.

I tell myself again that I have warned him, and that my duty does not exceed that.

“Anything else?”

There’s a note of hope in his question. He wants to know about Beatrix.

“Nothing else.”

I leave.

CHAPTER18

Beatrix

I was supposed to see the therapist today, but when the time for the session comes around, I decide to skip it. The idea of talking about what I dreamed about feels fucking awful. I don’t want him to know what happened. I don’t want Armand to know what happened. I wish I didn’t know what happened. Every bit of memory feels like I’m being cut from the inside.

I shut this stuff off from my memory for a reason. I repressed it because it doesn’t help to remember. Remembering feels like wanting to scream continuously all the time day and night.

Fortunately, the chateau is a very large place and there are always at least a hundred people milling around it at any given time. It’s not hard to get lost in one of the libraries, sitting rooms, game rooms, conservatories, art studios, and studies. This is a building made for people who want to get lost while not actually running away from home.

I am in the second-floor conservatory, a later addition, glass walled and jutting out over the cliff against which the chateau is set. Sitting out on the edges of the room make me feel as though I might go tumbling over the side at any moment.

I like this room because just being in it is unsettling, and it being unsettling means I’m just distracted enough not to think about…

A tap on my shoulder makes me turn around.

Mr. Volkov is there, his arms folded over his chest.

“We have a session.”

“I changed my mind.”

“It’s a matter of courtesy to inform someone if you don’t intend to keep a meeting with them.”

“I don’t like your tone.”

“I don’t like your behavior.”

“Okay, now I really don’t like your tone. You’re talking to me like I’m a child. I’m an adult. I’m eighteen years old.”

“Yes. You should be in school, being looked after by an adult.”

“Armand is an adult.”

His jaw clenches for a moment. “The two of you are a couple of incorrigible children who hold the lives of dozens of others in your hands.”

“I thought you’d been fired, why don’t you fuck off, you big, fucking stupid…” I go off on him, cursing furiously until Armand appears. He does that, when there’s enough chaos.

“What’s all the yelling about?”

“He called me a spoiled child,” I say. “He said we’re irresponsible.”

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