marketeers and sundry criminals in Debasement were perfectly happy to relieve you of your scrip, in epic quantities. But if you had real dollars, you could buy just about anything your heart desired. Without any official record of the transaction.
Nate, in his official capacity as Chairman Heir, had access to dollars that would make any Basement- dweller’s eyes gleam with greed, and he’d been squirreling them away ever since he’d gotten old enough to understand their significance. He and Kurt had always tapped into that supply whenever they’d made their illicit trips to Debasement together, so Kurt knew exactly where the stash was hidden.
His eyes told him that the hidden compartment was empty, but, like an idiot, Nate had to reach in there and feel around anyway. But no, there was not a single dollar bill left in the compartment. Which was good news. It meant that Kurt had enough money to buy his way out of Paxco. Human smuggling was big business in the Basement, and Kurt would know just who to contact.
The less heartening news was that Kurt hadn’t left anything for Nate. No note, no good-bye, no explanation. Kurt was a beginner at reading and writing—skills that weren’t highly prized in the Basement—but Nate had been steadily teaching him. Kurt could have managed a note, even if it would have been clumsily written and riddled with spelling errors.
For half a second, Nate wondered if he was being the most naive human being on the face of the planet. To anyone but Nate, the theft of all those dollars with no explanation would be evidence of the most damning kind.
Was there a chance Kurt was guilty?
Nate dismissed the thought. He didn’t care what anyone else thought. He knew Kurt, and Kurt hadn’t done this. He’d taken the money, but Nate could hardly blame him for that. Every second he’d spent at the apartment would have increased the danger that he would get caught. So Nate couldn’t hold it against him that he hadn’t taken the time to write out a letter of explanation.
But the thought that Kurt was now forever out of his reach, doomed to live the rest of his life in hiding, sat heavily on Nate’s shoulders. As did the realization that without Kurt’s account of what had happened on the night of his murder, Nate might never know who had really killed him.
By the time Mosely finally allowed Nadia to go home, the heat in her cheeks and the weakness in her knees told her she was running a fever, and she felt like she was at death’s door. When she was escorted down to the security station’s lobby, her mother was waiting for her, sitting rigidly on the edge of a straight-backed chair, her chin held high and her eyes flashing with fury as she worked to maintain her fabled aura of superiority. No doubt she’d been sitting in the station’s lobby all day, but you’d never be able to tell by looking at her. Her makeup was still perfect, her hair neatly coiffed, her clothes unwrinkled. Nadia didn’t even want to think about how
Apparently, she looked as wretched as she felt, because as soon as her mother caught sight of her, the anger in her expression eased and a hint of concern entered her eyes. Nadia wanted to fling herself into her mother’s arms and sob, but of course the daughter of a president would never
“Please take me home,” she begged before her mother could say anything. “I need to lie down.” She sniffled loudly, playing up her illness in hopes of staving off a maternal lecture. She was rewarded by even more softening of her mother’s expression.
“My poor baby,” Esmeralda Lake murmured, reaching up to touch the back of her hand to Nadia’s forehead. “You’re burning up.” She glared at the two officers who had escorted Nadia, her face conveying the impression that she would hold them personally responsible for Nadia’s illness. Nadia noticed that neither of the men would make eye contact with her mother, both shifting awkwardly where they stood, and she suppressed a smile. Esmeralda might derive her status from her husband’s rank rather than her own, but she knew how to wield that status to devastating effect. Even big, bold, alpha-male security officers squirmed on the receiving end of her displeasure. Now, if only Nadia could somehow keep all that displeasure from being aimed at her.
Her mother put an arm around Nadia’s shoulders, and it took everything Nadia had not to lean into her and let the tears loose. She was holding on to her self-control by the most fragile of threads. Nate had been murdered. Nadia had been questioned like a suspect, threatened with a stay at Riker’s Island. Bishop was running for his life. And she had allowed herself to be bullied into spying on her best friend and future husband. It was all too much to handle, and yet somehow she had to hold it all inside.
“Where’s Dad?” she asked, the cold having turned her voice into a hoarse croak that would embarrass a frog.
“He’s in a meeting,” her mother answered. Nadia fought a wave of hurt that her father would allow himself to be called away at a time like this. “With the Chairman,” her mother hastened to add when Nadia gaped at her. “He couldn’t very well refuse to see Chairman Hayes, now could he?”
No, of course he couldn’t. And Nadia couldn’t help suspecting that Chairman Hayes had deliberately separated Nadia from her support system. It was clear to anyone who had eyes that her father was the softer, more sympathetic of her parents. Her father would take one look at her now and immediately cosset her like a sick child. She doubted her mother would let her off so easily.
Naturally, the press were camped out in front of the station. When the security team had arrived in the morning, Nadia had been wearing no makeup and had on drawstring pants and a light, boxy sweater. They hadn’t allowed her to change before bringing her in, and no doubt she looked the worse for wear. The idea of having her picture taken when she looked like that made her want to crawl away and hide.
Her mother apparently didn’t like the idea much, either. At her command, the security officers walked them to the waiting limo, using their jackets to shield Nadia from view. She had no doubt that tomorrow’s gossip columns would be filled with those photos, even if all they showed was the cluster of security officers.
Nadia let out a breath of relief when she climbed into the limo. Then she saw the look on her mother’s face and braced herself for the lecture she’d known was coming.
“Really, Nadia,” her mother said with a shake of her head, “what
Nadia groaned and closed her eyes, leaning her flaming cheek against the cool glass of the dark-tinted window. The coolness felt momentarily good, until it shot a chill through her entire body and she shivered violently. She wasn’t even trying to manipulate her mother this time, but it worked anyway.
Esmeralda sighed. “Never mind. We’ll talk about it later, when you’re feeling better.”
Nadia huddled in on herself and wished for oblivion. She didn’t want to think about anything, least of all about what the future would bring. How she wished she could turn back the clock and change the decisions she’d made last night. If she’d refused to let Nate bully her in the first place, maybe things would have turned out differently.
By the time the limo pulled up in front of the Lake Towers—named after Nadia’s grandfather, who had been the first president in their family line—Nadia was barely conscious. Someone—she was so out of it she wasn’t sure who—carried her into the building and up to her family’s apartment. She had the vague impression of someone else helping her out of her clothes and into her nightgown, and then the next thing she knew, it was morning.
Nadia’s eyes were crusty, and her head felt stuffed with cotton. When she reached up to rub the grit from her eyes, she noticed the IV stuck into the back of her hand. She blinked in confusion, having no memory of having seen a doctor.
“Someone lied about getting her flu shot this year.”
Nadia wondered what drugs were dripping into her blood from the IV, because she felt like she was reacting in slow motion. She heard the voice, then had to take a moment to figure out which way to turn her head to face the speaker. With an involuntary groan, she turned to the right and saw her older sister, Geraldine, sitting in the corner armchair Nadia liked to use for reading.
“Gerri?” she asked, noticing that while her voice was still hoarse and croaky, it didn’t hurt to talk. The improvement was certainly welcome. “What are you doing here?”
As eldest daughter, Gerri was their father’s heir, a role she took very, very seriously. Gerri might take a day off from work if her husband or children were on their deathbeds, but she surely wouldn’t do it because Nadia had a nasty cold.
