Chapter 17 - THE THING MONEY COULDN’T BUYTwo weeks later, Penelopey woke at 3:12 AM.
Larkin was asleep beside her.
She slipped from bed and walked to the balcony.
Manhattan glittered below.
“You do realize,” Larkin said behind her, “that pretending you're fine works significantly less well after marriage.”
She smiled faintly.
“I thought you were asleep.”
“I married an insomniac accountant.”
He wrapped a robe around her shoulders.
“Talk.”
Penelopey stared at the city.
“My father is alive.”
“Yes.”
“My company almost collapsed.”
“Yes.”
“I discovered an algorithm can potentially destroy civilization.”
“Yes.”
“And somehow the strangest part is having a father again.”
Larkin smiled.
“That one I can't shoot.”
“Please don't.”
“No promises if he comments on my height again.”
She laughed.
Then became quiet.
“I don't know how to forgive him.”
“You don't have to.”
She looked at him.
“Not yet.”
Those words helped.
Arthur was staying in a protected townhouse.
Penelopey visited the next morning.
He had cooked breakfast.
Badly.
Smoke filled the kitchen.
“What happened?”
“Pancakes.”
“They're black.”
“Caramelized.”
“They're charcoal.”
Arthur sighed.
“I spent thirty years designing global financial systems.”
“And eggs defeated you?”
“Completely.”
She laughed.
The sound surprised both of them.
They sat.
Arthur slid a box across the table.
Inside were photographs.
Penelopey as a baby.
First birthday.
First bicycle.
High school graduation.
Her father had kept everything.
“I watched from a distance after I disappeared.”
Her smile vanished.
“You watched me struggle?”
Arthur lowered his eyes.
“Yes.”
“Why didn't you help?”
“Because every financial transfer could have exposed you.”
“I needed you.”
“I know.”
Penelopey stood.
Arthur didn't stop her.
At the door, she paused.
“I don't forgive you.”
“I understand.”
“But…”
She swallowed.
“…I’ll come back Thursday.”
Arthur looked up.
His eyes filled.
“I’ll learn pancakes.”
“Please don't.”
She left before she cried.
Outside, Larkin waited in the car.
He didn't ask what happened.
He simply opened the door.
Penelopey climbed in and leaned against him.
For ten minutes, neither spoke.
Then Larkin said:
“I bought something.”
“That sentence terrifies me.”
He handed her a folder.
Inside was a property deed.
A small house in Connecticut.
Not a mansion.
Not a fortress.
A house.
White porch.
Maple trees.
A garden.
Penelopey frowned.
“What is this?”
“Our weekend place.”
“We own seven houses.”
“We own seven security compounds disguised as houses.”
She laughed.
“This one has no panic room.”
“That seems irresponsible.”
“It has something better.”
“What?”
“A kitchen where nobody has ever been murdered.”
Penelopey stared at him.
Larkin suddenly looked nervous.
She had seen him face automatic weapons with less anxiety.
“There’s another reason.”
He opened a second page.
Architectural plans.
One room had been marked:
NURSERY.
Penelopey stopped breathing.
Larkin immediately spoke.
“No pressure. No expectation. I just thought someday—if you wanted—”
She kissed him.
Hard.
When they separated, his forehead rested against hers.
“You're crying,” he whispered.
“You're about to.”
“I don't cry.”
“You cried at our wedding.”
“There was dust.”
“Indoors?”
“Very aggressive dust.”
She laughed against his mouth.
For the first time, their future didn't look like an empire.
It looked like breakfast.
Bare feet.
A garden.
Maybe children.
Things neither money nor violence could manufacture.
Then Penelopey’s phone vibrated.
Unknown message.
She opened it.
A photograph appeared.
The Connecticut house.
Taken that morning.
Underneath:
Beautiful choice.
Penelopey's blood turned cold.
May you like
Another message appeared.
Architect Zero remembers you.
