Page 91 of Pulling Strings

Leaving Donovan alone with the gang during my prison sentence had been bad enough. I wasn’t convinced his time with them hadn’t spurred him into committing last night’s gruesome murder. And he’d showed up at the prison break with a conjured gun, trigger happy enough that he almost committed murder via friendly fire.

But the alternative was refusing the Capitol job, and then? Then I would lose everything.

I stood in limbo long enough for Grimm to chime in, “So, do I need to put you in contact with Miss Lyle, or—?”

“I’ll call her.”

31

Shake On It

Late that afternoon, I sat window-side at the French patisserie at 4thand Main, flaunting my newfound nice guy persona. I’d cleaned up for the occasion. My hair was tamed, and I wore black denims with a hoodie and jacket, plus a fingerless glove on my left hand. I shouldn’t have drawn much attention but, like I’d reminded Grimm, my very public trial was not quite twenty-four hours past, and I had my infamous face to contend with.

Patrons who had filled the restaurant upon my arrival left long ago. A mass exodus began the moment I walked in, as though signaled by the tinkling bell above the door.

It was a predictable reaction, and one of the many reasons I didn’t get out much before dark or frequent places like this.

Bentwood chairs and floor-to-ceiling bookcases gave structure to the space, lorded over by bubble glass chandeliers. Cloched cake stands lined the service counter, full of Danishes and croissants. Once upon a time, cheese Danish and cocoa had been mine and Donovan’s after-school indulgence. On crisp autumn afternoons, we had shared this same table with ourmother. We sipped hot drinks made with heavy cream and melting chocolate for which gas station instant made a sad substitute.

Despite the service staff having no other customers to attend to, they hadn’t spoken a word to me. Instead, they scurried to the kitchen, and occasional heads popped up behind the passthrough window. One woman had spent several minutes on the phone.

Was she calling the Capitol? They already knew. Their best and brightest was meeting me here.

The doorbell jingled again. I watched to see if the sound would draw the employees out of hiding like groundhogs from cover until Holland Lyle came to a stop on the other side of my table.

She wore jeans and a cropped sweatshirt, and her hair was tied in a messy bun with loose strands that framed her burgundy lips. Aviator sunglasses completed the look, though she surprised me by shoving them up into the nest of her hair.

Her exposed eyes darted around the vacant restaurant, returning to me as she frowned.

“Fitch,” she began, “I didn’t expect to hear from you so soon. Or at all.”

I snorted softly.

You and me both.

She took a seat, gazing out the storefront window at the people milling by outside. A few of them had spotted us, or perhaps they were among those who fled and were now lingering to see what happened next.

Holland’s cheeks pinked. She cupped a hand to the side of her face nearest the glass that framed us like mannequins on display.

“This is a PR nightmare,” she muttered, her embarrassment shifting into irritation. “And for the record, I almost didn’t come.”

“But you’re glad you did?” I raised a brow.

“That remains to be seen.”

Silence ate up the space between us until the smell of ground coffee grew stronger than my will to go without it.

“You want something to eat? Or drink?” I stood and slid around the table past her. “I’m gonna poke my head in the back and see about the holdup. I seem to recall the service here being better.”

Holland blinked as though I’d offered a novel thought. “Sure,” she replied. “Latte. Half caff. No foam.”

My pockets were no longer empty, having spent the earlier part of the day bailing my car out of impound. My personal effects had been waiting in the driver’s seat, tucked in a large manila envelope signed by Talbot Collier.

Bypassing the counter, I went to the swinging door with its porthole window and knocked.

Within seconds, a white-aproned waitress pushed it open and peeked out with wide eyes. She must have drawn the short straw.

My smile failed to ease her nerves or keep her from stammering as she said, “H-hello, sir. What can, can I get for you?”

---