Page 45 of Girl Anonymous

“You’re in over your head in the old ways. You’re drowning in the old ways.” His voice and his face were cold, impatient, certain. “When you rescued my mother, that act alone enlisted my protection for you. That bravery can’t be canceled by this newest revelation. I am not my father. I am not Benoit Arundel. Be grateful for that.” He flicked his hand at her as he’d flicked his hand at Tabitha. The message was clear. She was no higher than an employee, and she had taken as much time as he cared to give her.

Nodding stiffly, she turned with military precision and headed toward the door.

Before she stepped across the threshold, his voice brought her to a halt. “Maarja.”

She wavered. She really didn’t want to surrender to the commandin his tone. Not to mention he was ruining her absolutely perfect exit from the room and from his life.

On the other hand, she knew, absolutely knew, he wouldn’t let her leave until he was damned good and ready, and she wasn’t of the mind to test her strength against his. Not today. Not after this revelation, not after telling him her great secret, and of his easy turn to possible brutality. Turning with the same military precision, she faced him. “What?”

“Repeat the phone number.”

Not what she expected, in so far as she expected anything. “The phone number?”

“The one I made you memorize.”

She wanted to sayNoandWhy, andI’m never going to call you, not ever, no matter what. But the barbarous vendetta that had haunted her for her entire life had at last trapped her. She was caught. Her foster sister Alex had been swept into the hostilities.

So Maarja could say none of those things. Instead she looked just past Dante’s right ear and recited the numbers, and when he said, “Very good. You may go,” she did.

CHAPTER 19

Like most graveside services in California, Mrs. Arundel’s took place on an incongruously sunny day under dappled leaves of the old and gracious Alta Mesa Memorial Park. Maarja arrived late, hoping to miss any pontifications and testimonials, and in that she succeeded, but she never expected the large crowd of black-clad mourners to still be pacing past, examining the contents of the coffin, dropping flowers onto the body, then lingering in clumps around the site and speaking in low voices. It had been ten days since the explosion; Maarja supposed that length of time made it possible for the Arundels to gather from far and near.

As she approached, she saw Dante sat under the awning that protected the family from the sun, scrutinizing each person in the line from under heavy-lidded eyes…and waiting for something, although Maarja couldn’t imagine what. Not her, because although she felt his gaze touch her, he showed no recognition or approval.

Not a problem. She was here to show her respects to Mrs. Arundel, not to bow to him.

A red-nosed Béatrice sat beside Dante, sniffing into her wrinkled handkerchief. Andere sat beside her, looking more like the undertaker than the undertaker, and Fedelma sat beside him,head high, expression blank. Maarja had witnessed Fedelma’s tears for Mrs. Arundel; she wondered now at her stoicism. Had she perhaps too often been a participant in an Arundel family funeral?

A suit-clad Jack sat on Dante’s other side, at the end of the row, also observing, but in an analytical way. He seemed to be watching for twitches and tells, and to Maarja’s casual, uninformed eyes, there were plenty of those: older men and women who smirked inappropriately, older men and women who looked almost too grieved, young men and women who watched Dante watch them, bored young men and women who were there because by Arundel protocol they were required to be.

Behind the immediate family, Nate stood with his arms crossed over his chest, scrutinizing the entire scene.

This funeral line, so filled with French aristocrats, all holding single red and white roses, seemed to Maarja like the lineup for execution by guillotine. Somebody, and maybe a few somebodies, were going to end up dead.

On that thought, she joined the line and, with down-turned head, she inched forward. She wished so fervently she’d thought to bring a rose that at first she didn’t notice the hush that rippled up the line, then over the rest of the crowd. All she wanted was to get past the coffin, pay her respects, and return to Sacramento to help care for Alex. Yet when she could hear the rustle of leaves and bees humming as they visited the fragrant funeral wreaths, she realized all the low-toned conversations had died. Except for two hissed words that wafted from deep inside the crowd. “Benoit’s assassin…”

She lifted her head and glanced around.

Every eye was fixed on her. Critical eyes. Cruel eyes. They were like a single entity, a cobra waiting to strike.

For the first time she recognized what she was to these people.

Romani. Daire. Enemy.Prey.

How had they discovered she was the one who’d been Benoit’s executioner? Had Dante told them?

No. He would never hand over information to the unworthy.

Maarja allowed her gaze to probe deeper into the crowd.

There she was. Tabitha. The temp who eavesdropped. Tabitha smiled as if she’d won the prize.

Maarja had told herself the old ways didn’t concern her.

Dante had made it clear she was a fool. Why hadn’t she believed him? She should have stayed away. Now she stood alone, thinking she could easily accompany Mrs. Arundel into the open grave, and no one would ever know.

She met Dante’s gaze.

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