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Victoria pauses in her office to grab a stack of files from the edge of her desk. Then it’s back down the stairs to the basement. On days like this, I wish for the elevator, but it’s considered an unnecessary use of electricity.
“Do we give them anything?” I ask, skipping down the steps at Victoria’s break neck pace. “Before we put them out?”
“Like a going away present?” Victoria asks with a humorless laugh.
“No, of course not. But water, maybe? Or a map?” Even as I ask the question, I know the answer.
“Nope. ” Victoria yanks open the basement door and holds it for me to pass through ahead of her. “Besides, a map would be only a guess on our part. We have no idea what’s out there, either. ” She points toward the corridor where the gun room is located. “This way. ”
I manage to pass by the closed door without glancing at it, although the urge is strong. We take another right and, huddled at the end of the hall, are three men in shackles. David and another guard lean against the wall.
David sees us coming and pushes himself away from the wall. “Hey, Victoria,” he says. “Mrs. Lattimer. ”
“Ivy,” I tell him. From the expression on his face, I know it will be a cold day in hell before he ever brings himself to call me anything other than Mrs. Lattimer.
“Hello,” Victoria says. “Everything going according to procedure?” Her voice is brisk and businesslike. She doesn’t look at any of the prisoners.
“Yes,” David says. “Just waiting for you to bring the paperwork so we can get them out of here. ”
“Sorry we’re a little late. ”
“That’s okay. ” David flaps a hand behind him at the men. “They’re not going anywhere. But it’s a long walk. Sooner we get started, the better. ”
“Absolutely,” Victoria says. She flips open the first file in her hands. “You know the drill. ” She hands David a pen and holds the file steady while he signs the paperwork inside. I tune them out and turn my attention to the prisoners.
The oldest one is probably in his fifties, with a hard paunch of belly and downcast eyes. Sweat stains the armpits of his shirt and moistens his forehead. Next to him is a small, wiry man who reminds me of a rodent, all his features pinched toward the middle of his face and sharp front teeth resting on his bottom lip. He’s not sweating, but he’s breathing fast. I can hear his labored inhales from where I stand. The final man is Mark Laird. I glance at him and he gives me a tentative, sad smile, looking for all the world like a wronged man valiantly accepting his fate. But that cunning, calculating gleam in his blue eyes gives him away. He’s already sizing up his situation, figuring out what can be used to his advantage. He’s obviously done with begging.
I don’t want to look at him. His eyes on mine make my skin crawl. I can hear the voice of the little girl he hurt crying inside my head. But if I look away, he’ll know he’s scared me. And that is worse than meeting his gaze.
“All set,” David says from behind me, and the second guard straightens up from his relaxed slouch against the wall. It seems like there should be more formality, something more dramatic to mark the moment, but David simply moves past the prisoners and pushes open the door in front of them. It opens directly to the outside and the bright sunlight streaming in makes us all squint. I put up a hand to shield my eyes.
“Come on,” David says gruffly to the first prisoner in line, the older man, “get moving. ” The man hesitates for only a second before shuffling forward, following David out into daylight. The other two have no choice but to do the same, as they are all chained together. The second guard brings up the rear, the door swinging shut with a hollow bang behind him. I lower my hand, sun spots still shifting before my eyes. The hallway is eerily quiet. I think I can still hear the men’s chains jangling from outside, but I know it’s only my imagination.
Victoria moves up next to me, her eyes on the door. “Well, that’s that,” she says. “Let’s get back to work. ”
“Okay,” I say, my voice small but steady. For all intents and purposes, I’ve just watched three men die. It was not as difficult as it should have been.
I’m passing the secluded edge of the park on my way home when Callie steps out from behind a tree and loops her arm through mine. I’m not even that surprised, but I pull away all the same.
“What is the deal with you and Dad lately?” I say. “Always lurking. ”
“Calm down,” Callie says, rolling her eyes. “Dad doesn’t even know I’m here. ”
“Why are you here?”
“You seemed a little off the other day,” Callie says, falling into step beside me. “I wanted to make sure you’re okay. ”
I snort. Callie has been a lot of things to me over the years—confidante, teacher, torturer, but nurturer has rarely been on the list. “What do you really want?”
“God, you’re prickly,” Callie says, probably annoyed that I’m stepping into territory she usually occupies.
I stop and stare at her, arms folded across my chest.
“Okay,” Callie says, mimicking my pose. “I want to know what’s going on with you and Bishop Lattimer. ”
“What do you mean?” I ignore the way my pulse increases at her words, my palms suddenly slick with sweat.
“You were acting weird the other day. ” Callie shrugs. “Reluctant or something. ”
“You mean reluctant to kill someone?” I ask. “Pardon me if I’m not jumping for joy. ” My voice has an edge to it, one Callie must hear, too, because she takes a step closer to me.
“Oh, grow up, Ivy. Did you actually think any of this would be easy?” Her voice cracks against me like a whip. “Anything worth fighting for…worth having…is difficult. There are always going to be casualties of war. ” She studies my face for a long moment. I try to keep my expression blank, but just like it’s been since we were children, she reads me in an instant.
She points at me, her finger coming millimeters away from stabbing me in the middle of the chest. “Do you…do you like him?” She sounds horrified, disgusted, like I’ve eaten a handful of worms or slept in my own vomit.
I look away, willing my heart to calm down. A warm breeze rustles the trees above our heads, blowing a tangle of hair into my eyes. I push it back impatiently. “I don’t have to like someone to not be okay with killing him. ”
“You know how important his death is to our success,” Callie says. “If his father dies, Bishop steps right into power. Nothing changes. They both have to go. You know that. ”
“I don’t think he’s like his father. He—”
“I don’t care,” Callie says, voice ice cold. “I don’t care what he’s like. And you shouldn’t, either. You’re selfish if you do. You’re going to put what you feel, what you want, before what’s best for our family? Before what’s best for everyone?” She grabs my forearm, her fingers digging trenches between the tendons. “After all these years, our family is finally close to being in control. Do you not get that?”
“Yes, I get that. ” I pry her hand off my arm, bending her fingers back as I do. “I saw three men put out today,” I say through clenched teeth. “Do you even care? Isn’t that the sort of thing we’re supposed to be fighting against?”