Chapter 3 - THE HOUSE WITH NO LOCKS
Mireille forgot how to breathe.
The city moved beyond the car windows in wet ribbons of gold and black.
“What did you say?”
Lucian sat opposite her.
“I said I know who started the fire.”
“Then say the name.”
“No.”
Her disbelief became anger almost instantly.
“You dragged me out of my house—”
“You walked.”
“Under circumstances that would make a hostage negotiator uncomfortable.”
“That’s fair.”
“And now you’re withholding this?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because I don’t know yet whether you’re safe knowing.”
She stared at him.
“I survived being set on fire.”
His expression changed.
Barely.
But she saw it.
“That doesn’t make you difficult to kill.”
The words should have sounded like a threat.
Instead they sounded like concern delivered by a man who had forgotten how concern was supposed to sound.
The car eventually turned through iron gates.
Lucian’s home was not the palace she expected.
It was an old stone mansion overlooking the Hudson, severe and quiet, surrounded by winter trees. No fountains. No marble statues. No ridiculous display of wealth.
Security cameras were nearly invisible.
Men were not.
Mireille counted four before reaching the door.
Inside, a gray-haired woman approached.
“Mr. Solvay.”
“Mrs. Calder.”
Her gaze moved to Mireille.
No shock.
No pity.
“Miss Voss. Your room is ready.”
Mireille looked at Lucian.
“You prepared a room?”
“I prepare for contingencies.”
“How flattering.”
Mrs. Calder’s mouth twitched.
Lucian noticed.
“Don’t encourage her.”
“I haven’t said anything, sir.”
“That’s how it begins.”
Mireille almost smiled.
Her room was on the second floor.
She checked the windows.
Then the bathroom.
Then the closet.
Finally, she inspected the bedroom door.
No lock.
Lucian stood in the hallway.
“There’s no lock.”
“No.”
“Interesting choice for a kidnapper.”
“You aren’t kidnapped.”
“Then why no lock?”
“Because nobody in this house needs permission to leave their room.”
That answer stopped her.
“My father put locks on mine.”
“I know.”
She turned.
“How?”
Lucian leaned against the doorway.
“Your father borrowed money from men who investigate collateral before lending against it.”
“Did you investigate me?”
“Yes.”
“That’s disturbing.”
“It should be.”
“Why admit it?”
“Because lying wastes time.”
She disliked how much she appreciated that.
Mireille placed her metal box on the dresser.
Lucian’s eyes followed it.
“What’s inside?”
“You said lying wastes time. You didn’t say privacy does.”
He nodded once.
“Dinner at eight.”
“I’m not hungry.”
“Neither am I.”
“Then why dinner?”
“Because you haven’t eaten since noon.”
Mireille stared.
“How do you know that?”
“Your father’s housekeeper told my investigator.”
“That is profoundly creepy.”
“Eight.”
He walked away.
At 7:58, Mireille went downstairs out of spite.
She found Lucian alone at a long table.
There were only two place settings.
“No army of criminals?”
“They eat elsewhere.”
“So there is an army.”
He cut into his steak.
“I didn’t say that.”
Dinner lasted twelve minutes before Mireille finally asked.
“Why Building Seven?”
Lucian put down his knife.
“My father owned thirty percent of Voss Industrial before the fire.”
She froze.
“I never knew that.”
“You weren’t supposed to.”
“What happened?”
“He died.”
“In the fire?”
“No. Three weeks afterward.”
Mireille waited.
Lucian’s eyes became distant.
“He discovered financial records suggesting someone had deliberately destroyed the warehouse.”
“For insurance?”
“That was the assumption.”
“And then?”
“He arranged to meet a federal investigator.”
Mireille’s stomach tightened.
“He never arrived.”
“What happened?”
“Car accident.”
“You don’t believe it was an accident.”
“No.”
“Who was driving?”
“My father.”
“Who else?”
“My mother.”
Something in Lucian’s voice closed.
Mireille stopped pushing.
For several seconds, only silverware and rain could be heard.
Then she asked, “What does this have to do with me?”
Lucian reached into a folder beside his chair.
He slid a photograph across the table.
Building Seven.
Smoke.
Firefighters.
Fourteen-year-old Mireille sat on an ambulance bumper.
Her face was bandaged.
Behind her stood Edmund Voss.
And behind Edmund—
Mireille leaned closer.
A younger Lucian Solvay.
She looked up sharply.
“You were there.”
“Twenty-two years old.”
“Why?”
“My father had sent me to retrieve something.”
“What?”
“A ledger.”
Mireille’s hand instinctively moved toward the scar along her cheek.
“I remember someone carrying me.”
Lucian did not move.
“I remember the ceiling falling.”
Silence.
“And someone picked me up.”
Lucian looked at her.
Mireille’s breath stopped.
“You?”
“Yes.”
The room seemed to tilt.
“You saved me?”
“I got you outside.”
“Why didn’t I know?”
“You were unconscious.”
“And afterward?”
“My parents died three weeks later. Your father denied the ledger existed. I had other priorities.”
She stared at him.
Fourteen years.
She had imagined the person who pulled her from the fire hundreds of times.
Sometimes a firefighter.
Sometimes an employee.
Sometimes nobody real at all.
And now he sat across from her calmly eating dinner.
“Why didn’t you tell me earlier?”
“Because gratitude creates obligation.”
“And you don’t want me obligated?”
“No.”
She almost believed him.
Almost.
Then a crash sounded upstairs.
Lucian was standing before Mireille understood what had happened.
A second crash.
Glass.
He pulled a gun from beneath his jacket.
“Stay here.”
He moved toward the hallway.
Mireille ignored him immediately.
They reached the stairs together.
“You’re terrible at instructions,” he muttered.
“You’re terrible at giving convincing ones.”
Two security men rushed past.
Lucian entered Mireille’s bedroom first.
The window had shattered.
Cold air poured through the room.
Her suitcase lay open.
Clothes scattered across the floor.
The metal box was gone.
Mireille stopped breathing.
Lucian turned.
“What was in it?”
She stared at the empty dresser.
“Mireille.”
“My mother’s things.”
“What things?”
“Photographs. Letters.”
“What else?”
She hesitated.
Lucian stepped closer.
“What else?”
“A key.”
His expression hardened.
“To what?”
“I don’t know.”
A security guard entered holding something.
“Boss.”
He handed Lucian a folded piece of paper found beneath the broken glass.
Lucian opened it.
His jaw tightened.
Mireille took it from him.
May you like
Four words had been written in black ink.
YOU SHOULD HAVE BURNED.
