Page 6 of West Bound
I’m floundering by comparison. And in my thirties, floundering feels a hell of a lot like failing, even if there’s plenty of money and all the worldly possessions I could ever dream of. Not that I particularly wanted love either. That shit burned me before, and I’m more than happy to watch my brothers walk down the aisle while staying well clear of the mess it creates in your life. But it still feels like there could be something more than this. Especially now that I'm watching these women who have dedicated their entire lives to simplicity and service. They seem, at least outwardly, happy to be living out their days that way. I’ve been trying for the last several weeks to make sense of it.
“I suppose that’s true. I can’t fathom it. But good for them,” I mumble when I realize I’ve been lost in my thoughts while he takes another slow draw from his glass.
“And what about her?” My brother brings us back around to the real subject of the phone call, the one who brought me to this island in the first place.
“She’s good. She’s warming to me. I’m making progress with her.” I keep my assessment perfunctory.
She’s another little conundrum because, from all my observations of her, with and without her knowledge, she seems like a good person. Every bit the perfect little nun she appears to be. Minus a few indiscretions in the middle of the night. None of which match the ruthless roots of self-interested pricks on her family tree.
“Still keeping an eye on her via the phone?” he asks, the jovial brother gone and the ruthless head of our family back on the line. I installed specialized spyware on her phone through a zero-day exploit on one of her apps when we first discovered her. It gave me access to everything, even the ability to activate her camera and microphone. Features I might have taken advantage of once or twice.
“Yes, lots of interesting data.” I stare out across the lake to where the shadows of the mountains start to fade into the dark horizon. Flashes of her dance through my vision. That melodic laugh of hers, followed by her sweet smile. The way her nose scrunches up when she studies a book in the archives. The breathless sighs in the middle of the night as she works herself up to?—
“Like?” My brother interrupts again by pressing me for details.
I usually share everything with him. In a case like this, I always would. I’m not just his business partner; I’m head of his security team. There’s a trove of confidential information I have on her now from the things she’s shared with me, Father Levi, the priest, on our walks to the things she unknowingly shares with me, the watcher, who installed spyware on her phone. Butthe intimacy of some of the things I know about her make me hesitate.
I’m guilty of cherry-picking the things I share. If it’s pertinent to the investigation I’m conducting—anything to do with the madman she calls a father or his unhinged quest to obtain Caroligian relics—I’m an open book. I've been quick to give them every single detail I find and spending long nights helping comb through datasets to find anything that might help us turn up answers. But if it’s just her, the private would-be college student turned nun? I leave her privacy intact. For now, at least.
“Nothing of use to us. Just gossip with her friends. Pictures of the lake. Searches to identify bugs in the garden. Tickets for the Vienna Boys' Choir performance for Christmas. Some notes about Christmas markets.” Late-night jam sessions through her favorite playlists and, on a good night, searches for adult content she’s curious about into the wee morning hours when she panics and deletes it all. But only after she hides her favorites in a secret folder labeled “Recipes.” I’m busy smiling to myself about that when I hear Grant calling my name through the phone.
“What? Sorry. I was distracted by something on the lake.” I toss another rock, and it doesn’t even skip, just disappears below the surface of the cold, rippling navy waves, down into the depths.
“I asked if you have a timeline in mind?”
“Not really. A couple more weeks maybe. I imagine I’ll have anything Charlotte could possibly use by then. It might be enough time to soften her toward me, but I don’t know how much she’s going to confess to an outsider. The priest thing helps me as much as it hurts me. She thinks I’m too fucking holy to tell me any of her dirty family secrets or anything that would be particularly helpful in twisting Daddy's arm.” At least unless I’m behind the mask of the confessional. I should try to arrangethat again, but how I’d keep it a secret from her next time, I’m not sure.
“She might twist his arm for us. Or even if he knew just how easily we could snap her neck…” My brother sounds like me now. Cold and calculating. Her father tried to kill all of us, including my brother’s bride-to-be, and that simply couldn’t stand. But I wasn’t keen on the idea of harming her.
“She’s never even mentioned him. Not even in passing.” It’s the truth.
“Does that mean anything though? You said yourself she might not want you to know about him.” Grant knows as well as I do.
“It’s possible. Like I said, I’m hopeful with a little more time, she might crack open.” Especially now that I know she's been fantasizing about me late at night. That’s an opportunity I can exploit.
“We might not have that kind of time.” My brother points out the obvious. We’d gotten a reprieve when we foiled the governor’s plan. We had a loose eye on him in the form of our uncle, our very own mole in his establishment—not that he’s trusted with many details. If he folded under our pressure, I can only assume the same would be true of the governor. Pragmatically speaking, it really seems only a matter of time until he tries to kill us again. There’s a real possibility we don’t have time to figure out the why before it all collapses in on us.
I need these reminders. The ones that keep me grounded when I get distracted by her and the pull I’ve created between us.
“I’ll press her tomorrow when I see her in the archives. See if I can’t ask some questions about her life before that puts us down the path where she might start talking.” It was high time to make some decent headway with her. Something I can’t quite put my finger on has been holding me back, and I worrythat it might grow if I don’t start putting a tighter leash on my imagination.
“Good. Don’t go soft on me, drinking all that German beer and spending your days on vacation.” Grant’s brotherly tone has returned.
“You know I’d much rather spend my vacations at a cabin in the Rockies, drinking some decent whisky and kicking your ass at a couple of rounds of cards.”
“Then let’s get you back here to do that.”
“I’ll call you in a few days. Let you know how it goes,” I promise.
“Oh. I almost forgot. Rowan’s in Munich on business for the next few days. Acting as a courier for one of Charlotte’s projects. He said to see if you wanted to meet up.” Rowan is one of Charlotte’s many paramours and Hudson’s head of security. The Kellys and the Stocktons share business and many of the same passions and problems—one of them being the governor. I could pass some discoveries from the archives off to him by hand and relieve my mattress of the storage.
“Yeah. I can take the train in. I’ll text him.”
“Good. Good. I’ll talk to you soon. Light a candle for my immortal soul, will you, Father?” Grant jokes.
“I don’t think there’s much of one left to save.” I laugh. “Talk soon.”
I hang up the phone and start to make my slow, meandering walk back toward the convent. I'll need to be quiet entering the gates. They have a curfew and quiet hours they like to maintain since so many of the walled inhabitants prefer the crack of dawn to the dead of night. I'm not ready for bed quite yet. Too curious about what she’s up to.
