Page 23 of Matrix

“If you want to leave, there’s the door. But good luck to you. Once you walk off this property, you’re not our problem anymore. You're a fool if you think the FBI can protect you from Blackstone. He’s a monster who’ll stop at nothing to get what he wants.”

“You’d actually let me leave if I wanted to go?” I don’t believe him for a second.

“I’ll give you one chance to leave. Right now. If you stay, you’re committing to working with us to take down Blackstone.”

“And find my sister. That has to be part of our agreement.”

“If that’s all you want in exchange for Blackstone, consider it done. We’ll help you rescue her once we find out where she’s being held.”

“That’s all I want.” My voice wavers even as I lift my chin.

“I know. If it weren’t for your sister, I’d never consider keeping you around. Hell, I wouldn’t have let you leave the basement if I didn’t trust you at least a little bit. You’ve got one damn good reason not to fuck us over. You know the Feds haven’t been able to find your sister, but we can. It might take a while—”

“We don’t know how much time she’s got left. She could be in terrible danger.”

“Or she could already be dead.”

“No.” I back up a step.

“You can’t discount that possibility.”

“I would have felt it.”

“How old is she? You’re not twins, are you?”

“No. She’s thirteen. Twelve years younger than me. Our parents didn’t expect her. She’s an ‘oops’ baby. But they love her so much. My mom won’t even leave the house anymore because she’s so distraught. Dad never drank a day in his life until after Angela went missing. We have to rescue her. Losing her will destroy my family.”

“I don’t make promises I’m not sure I can keep, but I’ll tell you this, we’ll do everything in our power to find her. But you’d better work your ass off to help us bring Blackstone to justice.”

“I will.”

“Good. Now, I know you’re not our club girl anymore, but I do need your help. I’m going to call a few contacts I have in Denver to see if they know anything about the girls being transported there. While I’m working on that, I need you to cook the best steak dinner you’ve ever made. Give it to Matrix. Take care of him for a bit. I’m not asking you to do this as a club girl. I’m asking because that’s what needs to be done right now. I can’t do that while also making calls.”

“Understood.” I nod. “What about the other guys?”

“Don’t worry about them. Matrix is our top priority right now. He’s the only one who fully understands how all his computer stuff works. I know you can hack into the system without him, but you won’t know where to start looking. I want you in his files, but I don’t need you poking around in club business unrelated to Blackstone. Don’t touch any of his shit until he’s back to normal. Once he’s himself again, then we can get to work.”

“Okay.”

Scar opens the door, and we walk back into the kitchen. Matrix hasn’t moved from where Scar left him. He still looks dazed. According to Scar, all Matrix needs is some food. The sooner I can get that done, the better. I hate seeing him like this. He’s usually so rational and analytical. I’ve never watched him lose control the way he did in the basement. I didn’t even think he was capable of so much violence. He’s a murderer. If I hadn’t seen him do it, I wouldn’t believe he could be so vicious. But I saw his explosive rage with my own eyes. It was so shocking that I’m questioning everything I thought I knew about him. From now on, I need to be cautious around him. Scar seems convinced Matrix won’t snap, but how well can Scar really know him?

The familiar task of cooking dinner calms my nerves. Matrix hasn’t said anything to me, but he’s been watching me. His eyes follow me around the kitchen. It should be creepy, but it’s not. There’s nothing behind his gaze. I’m not even sure if he’s still here with me. He seems like he’s not really present. Maybe he’s still disassociating.

“Steak and a baked potato,” I announce, setting the plate in front of him. “I don’t know what you take with it. Steak sauce? Sour cream? Butter?”

“Butter.”

I open the fridge and take the butter tray out. After setting it in front of him, I grab a knife from the utensil drawer. Its blunt edge wouldn’t make a good weapon; still, handing it to him feels dangerous. He takes it without incident. I back away and lean my hip against the counter.

“Where’s your plate?” he asks.

“I’m not hungry.” My stomach’s still in turmoil. I’d throw up anything I attempted to eat right now.

“Are you just going to stand there then?”

“I’ll make some tea.” I set a kettle on the stove and wait for the water to boil. He glances at me between bites. I try not to look over at him, but it’s impossible. Our strange connection is still there. It’s an ever-present force, tying us together whenever we’re in the same room.

“Sorry you had to see that.” He slathers butter onto the potato. “I should have left you upstairs.”

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