S?ren says nothing.
His silence seems strategic, as if he’s waiting for her to keep talking, to blunder, to give something away. Or maybe I’m just imagining it. Maybe he’s just sitting there frantically jerking off to his reflection in a mirror and I’ve built up this whole vision of him as the great and powerful Oz because that’s how Tabby thinks of him, when really he’s just some insecure asshole pulling levers and operating machinery from behind a curtain.
Maybe he’s all smoke and mirrors, and she’s never been able to see beyond the screen.
Chan points to his watch, signs the numbers two and zero, and then gives a thumbs-up.
I squeeze Tabby’s shoulder. Twenty seconds. Keep him talking for twenty more seconds, sweetheart, and then we can nab his smug, psychotic ass.
“Do you remember what I told you the last time I saw you?” asks Tabby.
She’s beginning to look drained. Even this small amount of contact is taking it out of her. How must it have been for her living with him for an entire year?
I want to kick my own ass for doubting her.
“Yes,” replies S?ren. “Perfectly. You know I do.”
“So you know what has to happen next.”
“I know what you think has to happen next. But consider: Who would you be without me? No one. Just another squandered talent in a world littered with the corpses of the could-have-beens and the almost-hads and the settled-for-second-bests.”
Chan taps his watch, signs, Ten.
“But you’re none of those things,” continues S?ren, his voice growing softer with every word. “Are you, pet? You’re not the frightened little lamb I saved all those years ago. What are you now?”
Tabby’s voice cracks over her answer. “Frankenstein’s monster.”
“No, liefde. You’re a survivor. You’re a hunter. You’re a lioness. And we both know what do lions do best.”
Chan raises his right hand. All five fingers are splayed. He makes a fist, displays four fingers. Another fist, three. Then two. Then one.
Tabby whispers, “They hunt.”
Chan shakes his fist. He turns to O’Doul. Exultant, he mouths, We got him!
In a voice throbbing with intensity, S?ren says, “So let the hunt begin.”
And just like that, the line goes dead and he’s gone.
Twenty-Four
Tabby
I’m shaking so hard, my teeth chatter. A trickle of cold sweat runs down the back of my neck. My heart is like a rat trying to claw its way out of a cage, and there’s an invisible vise winching tighter and tighter around my lungs.
It’s been nearly a decade since I’ve heard S?ren’s voice, yet it still has the power to shatter me like a hammer slammed against bone.
“Where is he, Chan?” barks O’Doul.
“Miami. South Beach.”
Miami? S?ren hates the beach.
I’m vaguely aware of Connor’s hand on my shoulder, of O’Doul calling for the agents to return to the room, of a swarm of excited activity around me as everyone starts talking at once. Words tumble over me like water, a meaningless jumble of noise.
“I’ve missed you so much. My fierce little warrior. My love.”
Air. I need air.
I lurch to my feet. Connor follows.
“Tabby?”
His voice is tight with worry, but I can’t think about that now. I can’t think, I can’t breathe, I can barely put one foot in front of the other holy shit get me out of this room before I scream—
I’m scooped up in a pair of strong arms.
“Wha—”
“I’ve got you,” says Connor. I realize I’d been just about to fall. My legs are as wooden and useless as the rest of me.
As if he knows instinctively that I need to get as far away from this room as possible, Connor strides out of the office, carrying me in his arms. In the hallway, he pauses, looking left and right.
“Outside,” I say, panting fast, shallow breaths.
Connor squeezes me. “You’re hyperventilating. If you don’t get your breathing under control, you’ll pass out.”
I drag in a huge breath, blow it out hard. It seems to help clear my head, so I do it again.
“Good. Keep doing that.”
Connor starts to walk again. We move down the hall until we get to the elevators. He lifts a knee and presses it against the call button, and I’m distracted from my pending mental breakdown by how impressed I am that he can stand on one foot and knee a waist-high button on the wall while holding a grown woman in his arms, all without even a wiggle of imbalance.
Between breaths, I wheeze, “Do you do Pilates? Your balance is amazing.”
“Yoga.”
He answers with a straight face, so I know he’s not making a joke. I picture Connor—macho man, hulking muscles Connor—on a yoga mat doing sun salutations and a downward-facing dog, and laugh. Unfortunately, it was badly timed as I was in the middle of gulping air, and so I start to cough, big, body-racking coughs that have Connor saying, “Whoa,” and looking alarmed.