Empire of Lies
week since we’ve seen each other, I never want to spend that much time apart again.He looks at me with his eyebrow raised, his lips still touching mine. “Is this the part where you expect me to say some romantic shit to you?”
“Yes.”
“Hmmm,” he says, slowly pulling away from my mouth. “You won’t be apart from me that long ever again. I miss you, too—I especially miss the fucking. Better?”
“Good enough.”
“Have you thought about whether you want to return to being Meredith Thatchwood yet?” he asks.
“I want to be Meredith Anderson,” I correct him. “But I don’t think it’ll take eleven weeks. I’ve been thinking about ways to cut down that time.”
“Oh?” His lips curve into a smile and he looks like he’s struggling to hold back a laugh. “It’s something better than what I suggested on the phone last night?”
“I made a few adjustments, added a few more things that’ll really hurt their reputations.”
He stares at me for several seconds, and then he smiles. He presses his hand against the small of my back and helps me into the front seat.
Clasping my hand over the gearshift, he heads back to where our relationship started: Manhattan. Fahrenheit 900.
The more he drives, the more I realize how happy I am to be back in this city, but there’s an uneasy feeling in my chest when he turns down Fifth Avenue. When I catch sight of my father’s newest row of leasable condos. Hurt, I look away and try to focus on something else.
What I see next is even worse.
It’s a digital billboard in Times Square that features my father’s face and a scrolling quote in bright red.
“Leonardo Thatchwood thanks you for your vote!
Thank you to all the wonderful people of New York for the support!
Reserve your “Victory Party” tickets at thatchwoodtakesnyc.com”
Before I can turn my head away in disgust, a different ad appears on the big screen—a bright and pretty one for Gillian’s upcoming book.
Or, so I think.
The words “Release the damn book! Sincerely, Your Goddamn Fans” scrolls right under her face, seconds before the words, “Author Missing in Action” are stamped onto her forehead.
Laughing, I look over at Michael. “When will it be possible for me to see Gillian again?”
“Whenever we finish the job.” He slows the car, steering it into the alley next to Fahrenheit 900. “Put this on,” he says, handing me a sweatshirt. He waits until its over my head, and then he gently pulls the drawstring to cover my face even more.
He holds me against his side as we slip inside the building and board the elevator. He keeps his eyes on mine as we ride to his office, and then he motions for me to take a seat in the chair that faces the dancefloor.
Below, at least a thousand people are dancing under the flashing lights. The DJ is jumping up and down onstage as the music shakes the walls, and just like it was on the first night that I came here, there are two exotic dancers twirling on the poles in sync.
“Welcome back to Fahrenheit 900, Mr. Anderson,” His assistant steps into the room. “I’m so sorry that the police were never able to find her…” Her voice trails off. “I’m also sorry that I wasn’t ready for your return tonight. I wasn’t expecting you to come back here for a while longer.”
“Noted.” He ignores all of her comments. “Get one of the bouncers in here for me, please.”
“Yes, sir.” She rushes away out of the office.
Seconds later, the guy who damn near put me out of this club months ago appears in the doorway.
“Yes, Boss?” he asks.
“Tell everyone out there that they need to get the hell out of my club. Staff included. Now.”
“Sir, we just started this party less than an hour ago.” He sounds like a whining teenager. “Besides, the cover charge for tonight is three hundred dollars, and we’re already at capacity.”
“Ramon, you know that I’m not a fan of repeating myself.”
Ramon nods and steps back, leaving the room.
Within seconds, the flashing lights stop, and the red and orange flames that lap the dance floor fade into a soft white. The partiers slowly make their way off the floor and head for the exit.
The club is cleared within fifteen minutes, and Ramon returns to place a phone in a drawer.
He briefly makes eye contact with me and tilts his head to the side. Then he gasps, blinking several times.
“Maybe we do need to go home tonight. I’m starting to see shit…” He mutters, stealing one last, confused glance of me before leaving the office.
Michael waits until he knows the club is empty before grabbing my hand and leading me down to the dancefloor. Pulling a small remote from his pocket, he taps a few buttons. and a massive screen drops down from the ceiling.
It comes on seconds later, revealing a bright blue map and a long and extensive list of times and places.
6:45 town car pickup…7:05 call to advisors once driver picks up coffee…7:30 media conference call.
“What is all this?” I ask.
“Your father and your aunt’s schedules for the next month and a half,” he says.
“Can’t I just get that from their secretaries?”
“No. If you want to do this job right, you’ll need to trail them and learn their habits—to become an expert in all the small things that they do when no one’s watching.” He pauses, running his fingers through my hair. “You’ll also need to trail a few of their friends, while they’re busy in their meetings to find out who they listen to, who they pretend to listen to, and who they actually respect. If you’re going to win at this game, you have to make sure you know all the ways that your opponent can lose.”
I look up at the screen again, as their birth certificates and public real estate records appear.
“I know that they’re your family members,” he says, “but you’ll also have to do some intense research on their business and their personal histories. You