Page 29 of Seal My Fate

I collect our stuff and manage to get Annabelle’s address from one of the other women, before getting her into a cab. We spend the journey with the windows wide open, and me praying she can hold her liquor for the ride, but luckily, the apartment she shares with Max is nearby. It’s a luxury, modern building, and the doorman helps me steer her onto the elevator and swipe the security pass for the penthouse floor.

“Thanks,” I tell him, relieved. “Just had a little too much fun celebrating, that’s all!”

“Of course, miss.” He bobs his head respectfully, and steps out, as we swoop upwards.

The elevator opens directly into the apartment, a stunning penthouse that takes up the entire tenth floor. It’s flashy and modern, like something out of a magazine. Exactly the kind of thing I’d expect from Max. But looking around, I don’t see so much as a hint of Annabelle in the stark, monochrome rooms. And definitely no pink.

“OK, let’s get some water into you,” I say, depositing her on a spotless white couch. I fill a glass and dig up some aspirin from my purse. “And take these, too.”

“You’re sonice,” Annabelle slurs, as she obediently gulps the water. “And Saint’s sobad. Bad can be fun, but I hope he doesn’t cheat on you. They all cheat in the end, no matter how hard you try…”

I feel a pang of sympathy. “Time to get to bed.”

She shakes her head stubbornly. “No. I’m hungry… You know what I want?” she beams, sinking back into the couch cushions. I have plenty of experience dealing with drunken roommates after a college rager, so I slide off her shoes, and tuck a blanket around her, as she yawns, still babbling.

“A bacon and brie baguette,” she sighs dreamily. “God, I used to have them all the time at Oxford. There was this little place in town, Harry’s Caff, they did the best greasy sandwiches…”

She lolls back, thinking about the perfect breakfast, but something she said itches in the back of my mind.

Harry’s…

I’ve heard of this place before. Did Saint take me there?

“… They would toast the buns in butter, you see. And then melt everything on top, just right…”

And then it hits me.Harry’s. That’s the place that Jamie Richmond said his source used to leave him information about the Blackthorn Society. He was investigating them for a big newspaper exposé, and someone on the inside was feeding him details. He never knew the source’s identity, but they used the café as a drop.

I stare at Annabelle, putting the pieces together.

“It was you,” I gasp, surprised. “You fed Jamie the information. The photo of Cyrus and the others. You were trying to bring Blackthorn down.”

Annabelle looks at me blankly for a moment—and then giggles. “Whoops!” she beams, clapping a hand over her mouth. “You found me!”

“But… Why?” I gape, my mind racing. Nobody would suspect Lady Annabelle DeWessops of a secret rebellion. Even now, I can’t wrap my head around it.

“‘Cause it’s not right…” she yawns, snuggling deeper under the blanket. “What they get away with. I thought someone could stop them… What they did to your sister…”

I go cold.

Wren.

“What do you know about that?” I demand, but Annabelle’s eyes are drifting shut. “Annabelle?” I say, louder. “Do you know what happened to Wren?”

“Someone took her…” she slurs. “Was dark. Didn’t see who. Sorry…. ‘Swhy I invited you. Thought you could get them… But you can’t,” she adds softly. “Nobody can stop them. It’s jus’ the way things are…”

She rolls over, and drifts off, sounding a snuffling snore.

My God.

I sit back, stunned. Annabelle was my mystery clue all along. She sent me to that Midnights party when I first arrived at Oxford, on the track to find Wren’s attackers. She must have seen a glimpse of Wren being taken, after the Blackthorn party, and assumed it was connected to the secret society—just like I did.

She was trying to help me find the answers, despite the risk.

I feel a wave of affection and tuck the blanket more securely around her before going to refill her water glass. The penthouse is immaculate, filled with expensive trophies: a liquor wall of the finest scotch, a Banksy graffiti on a chunk of concrete, a signed ’66 soccer World Cup shirt in a display case… All of it evidence of Max’s vast power and resources. There are photos of him on the wall, shaking hands with Presidents and kings… Chilling on a private jet with Saint and Hugh… Hanging out on a yacht with friends I recognize from the Blackthorn Society reunion.

They’re untouchable. Just like Annabelle said.

And some of them may be behind the Ashford conspiracy.

---