Chapter 39: The Lion's Den

The flashbulbs popping outside the tinted windows of the limousine felt like gunfire. Elena flinched, her hand instinctively going to her neck, checking that the sapphire collar was still there, that her head was still attached to her body.

"Smile," Julian murmured, the word slipping through his teeth without moving his lips. "We're on stage."

The door opened. The cold night air rushed in, smelling of expensive perfume and ozone. Elena stepped out onto the red carpet leading into the grand foyer of the St. Jude’s Medical Center. The annual Gala was the crown jewel of the social season, a fundraiser that laundered reputations as efficiently as it raised capital.

Elena took Julian’s arm. His muscle was rigid, like stone. They walked through the gauntlet of photographers, a perfect, golden couple untouched by the soot and ash that had coated them only hours ago.

They entered the ballroom. It was a sea of black ties and silk, the air humming with the murmur of a hundred polite conversations.

And in the center of it all, holding a glass of champagne, was Silas Vane.

Elena stopped so abruptly that the couple behind them nearly collided with her.

He was supposed to be in a cell. He was supposed to be processing in a concrete room with fluorescent lights. But here he was, wearing a tuxedo that fit him like a second skin, laughing at something the Mayor was saying.

"How?" Elena whispered, the blood draining from her face.

"Bail," Julian said, his voice devoid of emotion. "Or a favor. Or a threat. He owns the judges, Elena. Did you really think a night in booking would stop him?"

Vane turned. His eyes found them across the room. He didn't look angry. He looked delighted.

He raised his glass in a mock toast, then excused himself from the Mayor's circle. He began to cut through the crowd toward them, a shark moving through a school of ornamental fish.

"He's coming," Elena said.

"Let him come," Julian said. But his hand was trembling against her ribcage.

Vane stopped in front of them. He smelled of sandalwood and soap, not a trace of the smoke from the lodge.

"Elena. Julian," he said, his voice warm, benevolent. "I'm so relieved to see you made it. After the... excitement at the lodge, I worried you might be too shaken."

"You burned it down," Elena said, keeping her voice low, a smile plastered on her face for the onlookers. "You tried to kill us."

"An electrical fire is a terrible thing," Vane tutted. "And poor Beatrice... hallucinating intruders. I hope the hospital is treating her well? I hear she was quite hysterical when the troopers arrived."

He had spun the narrative before the embers were even cold. Beatrice was crazy. Elena was unstable. And he was the protector, sweeping up the mess.

"Where is she?" Elena asked.

"Sedated, I imagine," Vane said. He stepped closer, invading her personal space. "Now, Elena. The cleaning. Have you finished in the attic? I'd hate for the auditors to find any... unexpected clutter."

He meant the ledger. He knew she didn't have it on her. He was fishing.

"The attic is empty, Silas," she said.

"Is it?" His gaze dropped to the sapphire around her neck. "A lovely piece. It belonged to Constance. She wore it the night she signed the amended trust."

He leaned in, his breath warm on her ear.

"If you try to access the memory care wing," he whispered, "I will have you removed. Security is very strict tonight."

He knew. He knew she was here for Dr. Thorne.

Elena felt the trap closing. He was blocking her path. He had the Sheriff at the door and the security guards on the floor.

Suddenly, a crash echoed through the hall.

Glass shattering. A woman’s voice, loud and slurry.

"Oops! Oh, terribly sorry! My hand just... slipped!"

Elena turned.

Standing by the champagne tower, swaying in a white silk dress that concealed a heavy bandage on her shoulder, was Beatrice.

She hadn't stayed at the hospital. She had come to the war.

Beatrice was holding an empty bottle, and at her feet lay a ruin of crystal and spilled alcohol, soaking the trousers of the Bank President.

"Beatrice!" Vane hissed, his attention snapping away from Elena. "What is she doing here?"

He moved toward the scene, his need to control the optics overriding his need to control Elena.

Beatrice looked up. Her eyes met Elena’s across the room.

She didn't look drunk. She looked lethal.

She winked.

For a moment, in the wreckage of the Hawthorne dignity, they were actually sisters.

"Go," Julian whispered, releasing Elena's arm. "I'll watch him."

Elena didn't hesitate. She slipped into the shadow of a heavy velvet curtain and ran toward the service corridor that led to the memory care wing.