Page 61 of We Are the Match
“Jesus.” Tommy shakes his head.
“They’re investigating now,” Erin tells me, squeezing my hands. “They haven’t found him yet, which is why we need you down here.”
It takes the better part of the day to receive the all clear, by which time I am restless and tired but not otherwise the worse for wear. My father refuses my request to meet with him, too busy to answer my questions about Marcus—or perhaps because he does not believe I can handle the answers. Does he think, after all this time, that I will lash out the way I used to? Lay explosives on his doorstep and take my revenge?
The first thing I do, of course, is call Paris.
She does not answer the way I answer her calls, at the first ring. She makes me wait, even in this.
“What’s up, Princess?”
“What did you hear about Marcus?” I ask.
Paris laughs. “Meet me at Altea’s tomorrow night,” she tells me. “And I’ll tell you what I’ve got.”
I may not know much, but I know my father has a standing meeting with the three queens on their joint interest in expanding the weapons trade. It is always held at Altea’s, usually on her weapon range and sometimes in her office. I only once had an invite, as a teenager accompanying my mother, but my own impulsivity on the gun range—asking a young guard if she wanted to have a shooting competition with me—put an end to that.
“How the hell did you get an invite to that?” I ask Paris.
“Charm,” she tells me, and hangs up.
The next night brings a sharp chill and news that my father has found Milos and Marcus and will be occupied longer as he ... does what he always does.
While I am no longer being kept in the bunker, I have been offered little freedom, the security in the mansion still rigid—so when it is time to leave for Altea’s, I am eager to go.
We take a boat, Tommy and Paris and I, and dock in Altea’s private cove under the watchful gaze of the armed guards above it. One of Altea’s attendants waits for us as we make our way up the stairs from the cover toward the cliff top where Altea’s house sits, a guard beside her.
At Tommy’s request, they show us upstairs to the rooftop garden.
Altea’s rooftop garden is not so lush as mine—more wind-battered, less tended, but I love the peace of it. Green vines sprawling across the whole of it, winding around the legs of the white outdoor chairs. Tommy wraps me in one of the throw blankets and leads me to the couch.
“Okay,” he says. “We should be safe here. No microphones.”
“Is this why you wanted the garden?” I ask Paris.
She nods once. “We can speak more plainly up here.”
Tommy ducks his head at me. “I’ll give you two some room to breathe.”
He will be just inside the doors, listening for threats, waiting for summons.
“Tell me, please,” I say to Paris as soon as the elevator doors close behind him. “No one will tell me anything, least of all my father. But I know he has Marcus and Milos now.”
She cocks her head at me, a smile unfurling I have never seen before—glee, almost, or joy. “Oh, does he?”
Paris drops into a chair near the elevator doors and puts her feet—still in their scuffed combat boots—up on the table.
“Paris.” I join her, drop into the chair next to her and glare at her.
“It worked, then.”
“What worked?” Realization settles coldly over me.
“I think it’s time we have a conversation about what we both want here, Helen,” she says. Her voice holds a dangerous chill.
No one has ever thought me anything more than a pawn. No one has ever looked at me and thought I might be something more than a pretty face.
But Paris of Troy is looking at me as if she sees me for all that I am.
