The Saint: The Original Sinners Book 5 (13 page)

To kill time, she pulled her new math textbook out and flipped
through it.

“What the holy fuck is this bullshit?” she yelled as she tried
to decipher the precalculus before her.

Søren’s office door swung open.

“Eleanor. Inside voice.”

“Sorry,” she said. “Math.”

“Forgiven.”

She looked up at him. He held her story in his hand.

“You’re excommunicating me, aren’t you?”

“Why did you write this story?” he asked.

“I don’t know. We were talking about Esther and what happened
that night and I...I thought it would be fun to write. And then I started
writing it, and I couldn’t stop.”

“You couldn’t stop?”

“I couldn’t. It was like some demon had my hand and was racing
it all over the paper.” She grabbed her right wrist like a neck and pretended to
choke it until it went limp. “Anyway, sorry. I won’t make you read my weird
stories anymore.”

“I will read anything you write. You are a better writer than I
am.”

“Really? I thought it was kind of stupid.”

“Stupid?”

“Yeah, goofy. Childish. I made hymen jokes.”

“It’s satire,” Søren said.

“Satire? I wasn’t going for satire. I just wanted to make the
story funny to show how ridiculous it is to choose a country’s leader by how
good in bed she is.”

“Using humor to hold human foibles—usually of a political
nature—up to ridicule
is
satire, Eleanor. It’s a
difficult and sophisticated form of humor that very few adult authors have
mastered.”

“Oh,” she said. “Cool.”

“If you’re not careful, I’ll put you to work on my
dissertation.”

Eleanor blushed. Søren didn’t seem to be joking.

“Don’t you think I’d give those old priests who read your
dissertation heart attacks?”

“You nearly gave me one,” he said. He stared down at her story
and shook his head. She felt inordinately proud of herself. One little short
story and she’d gotten to Søren with it. She felt something, something she
hadn’t ever felt before. Powerful. She could put words onto paper and make a
grown man think wicked things like how fun it would be to tie a virgin to a bed
and fuck her until dawn. She could get used to this feeling.

“May I keep this?” Søren asked.

“You want to keep my story?”

“I think I should confiscate it. You’re too young to be reading
such things.”

“I think you’re forgetting something—I wrote it.”

“I’m keeping it,” he said.

“Okay. But you have to give me something in return.”

“What would you like? And please keep your requests above the
neck.”

Eleanor sighed in acquiescence. No asking him to bend her over
a pew, then. Fine. If she was smart she might get something out of this deal.
She’d given him a sexy story she’d written—something private, personal, secret.
Secret?

“Tell me a secret,” she said. “Any secret. Then you can have
the story.”

Søren exhaled heavily.

“Something tells me I’m going to regret telling you this, but
it’s perhaps for the best that you know.”

“Know what?”

“I have a friend,” Søren said at last.

“A friend? That’s the big secret?”

“You didn’t ask for a
big
secret.
Only
a
secret.”

“Why is your friend a secret?”

“That’s a secret.”

Eleanor opened her mouth and then promptly shut it.

“Here,” Søren said. “I’ve been intending to do this for
some time now.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a silver case. He
opened the case and extracted a business card. Black paper. Silver ink. He held
out the card and she reached for it. Søren pulled the card two inches out
of her reach.

“Before I give you this card, you must make me a promise,” he
said. “You will show it to no one. You will keep it to yourself. You will not
call the number on the card. You will never go to that address except in the
direst of emergencies. And by direst I’m referring to such events one would
describe as apocalyptic. You can make this promise?”

“I promise,” she said.

Søren stared at her another moment and then let her have
the card.

“I’m trading you a King for a king,” Søren said, holding
up her story.

Eleanor read the card.

Kingsley Edge, Edge Enterprises,
it
read.
152 Riverside Drive.

The card contained no other information but a phone number.

“Kingsley Edge. He lives on Riverside Drive? That’s where all
the rich people live, right?”

Søren inclined his head.

“Kingsley is not without means.”

“So he’s rich?”

“Filthy,” Søren said.

“Does he own a Rolls-Royce?”

“Two of them.”

Eleanor pondered that. So now she knew whose Rolls that
Søren had driven off in that night.

“He’s also dangerous, Little One, and I don’t use the word
lightly.”

She suppressed a smile. When he called her
Little One,
her fingers trembled and her feet itched and her thighs
tightened.

“I like him already. He’s your friend?”

“Yes. Now put the card away. Keep it safe. Emergency use only.
Understood?”

“Understood.”

She slipped the card into her back pocket.

“Okay, now you can have my story.”

“Thank you.” Søren stuck the folder under his arm. “Before
I take full possession of this fine piece of erotic satire, might I ask you one
question?”

“I really wish you wouldn’t.”

“Why does the king tie Esther to the bed?”

Eleanor cocked her head to the side. That wasn’t the question
she’d expected him to ask.

“I don’t know. I’ve been reading these books by Anne Rice and
there’s a lot of stuff like that in them.”

“I think you do know why he did it, and it isn’t because you
read about it in a book. Tell me the truth.”

She pondered the question a moment.

“I think he tied her to the bed for the same reason a smart man
who is not an idiot would put a lock on his Ducati.”

“Because he doesn’t want it stolen?”

“No,” she said, and knew she had the right answer. If this was
a test she’d show up to take it with nothing but a pencil.

“Then why?”

“Because he loves it.”

14

Eleanor

THANKSGIVING BREAK ARRIVED
and Eleanor nearly cried with relief. Finally she would have her answers from Søren. She’d watered that goddamn stick in the ground for six straight months without missing a single day. She’d been sick in bed, and she’d gone to water it. It had stormed, and she’d watered it. It had even snowed last week, and she’d trudged through six inches of white powder in her beat-up combat boots and watered it. That day, it had been so unnaturally cold the water had turned to ice the moment it touched the ground. The day after Thanksgiving equaled exactly six months from the day she’d begun. She had twelve questions ready for Søren. He’d better be ready to answer them.

1. What’s the second reason you’re helping me?
   
2. What’s the third reason being with me is problematic?
   
3. Why will your friend help me?
   
4. Why does a priest have his own handcuff key?
   
5. Whose feet should I be sitting at?
   
6. Why does everyone at church think your name is Marcus Stearns and your Bible says your name is Søren Magnussen?
   
7. Why do you want me to obey you forever?
   
8. Are you a virgin?
   
9. I’m a virgin. Are you okay with that?
   
10. When will you keep your end of the deal?
    
11. Who are you?
    
12. Are you in love with me?
    

If she had the answers to all these questions, she knew she would know everything she needed to know about Søren.

She spent Thanksgiving Day alone with her mom. They had turkey and mashed potatoes and a chocolate pie Eleanor had begged her mother to make. Eleanor slept for four straight hours after their dinner. She blamed the turkey for her coma but she knew it was simple exhaustion. Going to school five days a week and then spending seven days a week at church had worn her out. She couldn’t complain, though. Better than juvie.

The day after Thanksgiving dawned bright and cold and painfully beautiful. She had to squint to see the sky for all the light shining down and reflecting off the snow. Her mother had to work that day, so Eleanor had the house to herself. Bliss. Utter bliss. She ate leftovers, wrote, read and tried not to obsess over the answers Søren would have to her questions. She would go to Sacred Heart this evening on the pretense of working on something. She’d water that fucking stick for the final time, go to Søren’s office and hand him her list of questions. And then she’d have something truly to be grateful for.

She lay down to take a nap. What if their conversation went late into the night? She needed to be ready for that. But as soon as she lay down on her bed, the phone rang.

With a curse and a groan, she dragged herself to the phone.

“Hello?” she said, trying not to sound 100 percent irritated.

“Happy Thanksgiving, baby girl.”

“Dad?” Eleanor’s heart dropped.

“Of course it’s your dad.” He laughed, but Eleanor couldn’t.

“Why are you calling me?”

“Oh, I don’t know. Maybe because I love my daughter and miss her? Maybe because I haven’t heard her voice in months and I knew her mom would be working today.”

“Dad, we’re not allowed to talk to each other.”

“Who said?”

“Mom. My lawyer. My... Everybody.” Her father definitely didn’t need to know about Søren.

“We’re not breaking any laws. A man has a right to see his own child.”

“What do you mean,
see?
”

“I want you to come see me, Elle. Please? I’m going to be sentenced soon,” he said, his voice now devoid of all levity. “I’d love to see you one more time before I have to go away.”

“Where are you?” she asked.

“I have a little place in Washington Heights. You can be here in, what, an hour and a half? We’ll have dinner and talk a little. You’ll be back long before your mom gets home. How about it?”

“That’s not a good idea,” she said, even as her heart broke at the thought of her father going to prison. She’d never forgiven him for abandoning her the night she got arrested. But the truth was, she never really expected him to come in like a white knight and save her. That wasn’t his style. He was still her father, though, and she knew how brutal a real prison could be.

“Baby, it might our last chance to see each other for years. You know that, right? Years. Your mom will never let you come visit me once I’m in. She always works Friday nights, right?”

She did. Eleanor was alone. And her father was right—her own lawyer had said her father would probably be imprisoned in another state hours away.

“I don’t know....”

“It’s okay. I understand.” She could tell from his tone how hurt and disappointed he was. “But write down my address anyway? In case you change your mind?”

“Okay, fine. Give it to me.” She figured it wouldn’t hurt for her to have it. She scribbled the address down on a scrap of paper.

“I hope you change your mind. I’ve missed you so much. You doing okay?”

“Good,” she said. “I’m really good.”

“That’s good, baby,” he said softly, with such tenderness in his voice she found her eyes filling with tears and her throat closing up. “I want you to be happy.”

“I am. Promise.”

“Good. And you know I’m sorry I got you mixed up in my mess.”

“I know. I know you’re sorry.”

“Miss you. I’m home all day if you change your mind.”

“All right. Happy Thanksgiving.” She didn’t know what else to say.

“I love you, Elle. Always have, always will.”

Eleanor could barely swallow for the pain in her throat.

“Love you, too,” she whispered.

And then he hung up.

It wouldn’t hurt, would it? Seeing him for an hour? Except Søren had told her never to speak to or see her father again. Maybe he’d let her if she asked permission? Maybe he’d understand that she wouldn’t see her dad again for years and this might her last chance.

She picked up the phone again and called Sacred Heart. She had the number that rang directly into Søren’s office. But it wasn’t Søren who answered.

“Sacred Heart Catholic Church,” a woman’s voice answered over the line.

“Hi, Diane, it’s Elle,” she said to Søren’s secretary. “Is Father S. in? I have a question for him about my hours.”

“No, hon. He’s out of town with family for the holiday. Father Jim O’Neil from Immaculate is handling the masses until he gets back. Can I help you?”

Eleanor couldn’t answer at first. Søren was out of town for the holiday? But they had plans. He’d promised to answer her questions as soon as she finished watering the stick. That would be today. He hadn’t even told her he was leaving.

“Elle?”

“No, it’s cool. It wasn’t important.”

A sense of betrayal seared her. How could Søren have forgotten about her? Forgotten to even tell her he was leaving for four days? He would have been furious at her if she disappeared without telling him where she’d gone. And he’d done it like it was nothing, like her feelings and their plans didn’t matter at all.

She looked down at the scrap of paper and the address on it.

If Søren couldn’t be bothered to keep up his end of the bargain, why should she?

She took a quick shower and put on her best clothes—a new pair of jeans and a low-cut black sweater with a label from some fancy boutique she’d found at Goodwill, the original tags still on it. Washington Heights wasn’t the greatest neighborhood, but she wanted to look good for the city. She shoved her feet into her boots and grabbed her coat. She had about a hundred dollars saved in ones and fives rubber banded around the business card for Edge Enterprises tucked in her dresser. That was more than enough to get her to the city and back.

She took a bus to Westport, where she caught the train to Manhattan and then the subway to Washington Heights. She’d been running on pure anger for the past three hours but now that she’d arrived at her father’s building, a new feeling of dread threatened to take its place. The building looked one step above condemned. People on the street passed her, shooting her suspicious looks. But she wouldn’t give in to her fears. She buzzed her father’s apartment. When he heard her voice he almost sounded smug.

He buzzed her in and she climbed four foul-smelling sets of stairs to his apartment. He opened the door, and before she could say hello, he’d grabbed her and smothered her in a bear hug.

“Good to see you, too, Dad,” she said, nearly struggling for air.

“God damn, I can’t believe you’re here.” He pulled back and looked at her. “Who are you? And what have you done to my daughter?”

“I am your daughter.”

“Don’t look it. You look twenty years old now. When did that happen?”

“It’s the clothes and the makeup.”

“Supermodel.”

“Stop it.” She rolled her eyes. “I’m too short.”

“And too pretty. You don’t get that from me.” He let her go at last and she glanced around his apartment. A small studio, it might have been nice if someone cleaned it up, put some decent furniture in it. Her father clearly didn’t have the decorating gene.

“I know it’s not much to look at,” he said, walking into the tiny kitchen. “I knew I wasn’t going to be here long. But while you’re here, take your coat off. Get comfortable.”

She doubted she could ever feel comfortable in this place. Dirty dishes sat in haphazard stacks all over the apartment; clothes littered the floor. The whole place reeked of stale cigarette smoke and rotting food. She took off her coat and laid it over the back of the one chair that had the least amount of garbage on and around it.

“So...do you know what’s going to happen?” she asked.

“I’m going to prison,” he said and took a beer out of the refrigerator. “Want one?”

“You know I’m sixteen, right?”

“You’re not driving, are you?”

“No,” she said and took the beer from him. She’d had alcohol before but never in front of either of her parents. Communion wine didn’t count. She took a sip and found it equal parts disgusting and wonderful.

“So how’s community service treating you?” her dad asked, and she heard a note of bitterness in his voice.

“It’s not bad. I do a lot of office work for charities. I hang out at the homeless shelter and help out. Did a day-camp thing this summer. That was fun.”

“Nice work if you can get it. Sounds better than prison.”

She winced. “I’m sorry, Dad. I wish...”

“What? What do you wish?”

“I wish you didn’t have to go.”

“Yeah, well, that makes two of us.”

He drank his beer hard and fast. The man had an unnatural tolerance for alcohol, something he called “the Catholic effect.”

“Still trying to figure out how you got off so easy. I mean, thrilled you did. Don’t want my baby girl in juvie or anything, but still. Community service for five felony counts?”

“I had a nice judge. A good lawyer.”

“Where’d the lawyer come from?”

“The church paid for her. I do some work at the church to pay them back.”

“That’s good for you, then. Real good for you.”

“So...you said you wanted to go to dinner?” She desperately wanted to change the subject. She could tell talk of her light sentence didn’t sit with her father.

“Yeah, sure. But let me ask you something first.”

“Sure. What?”

“I have a new lawyer, too. Smart guy. Tough guy. Not a shark you want to meet in the ocean. Anyway, he’s thinking he can maybe get me a new trial.”

“New trial? Why?”

“Some fuckup with the evidence. Some dumb cop mislabeled a file or something, I don’t know. But if he can swing it and I get a new trial, there’s a chance I won’t have to go to prison.”

“You don’t think there’s enough evidence against you?”

“If I had a witness who’d maybe recant some of her statements she made to the police, then there’s a chance.”

Eleanor could only stare at her father in silence. He opened another beer. She’d barely made a dent in hers.

“You want me to lie on a witness stand for you? I gave an allocution. I’d go to juvie in a heartbeat if I start telling people I lied to the police. I’m on probation and I think I’ve seen enough TV to know perjury is a crime. A big one.”

“Baby, you’re sixteen. Even if you did end up in juvie, you’ll be out by the time you’re eighteen. That’s a year and a half. I’m looking at ten or more years, Elle.”

“I’m not going to lie for you.”

“Ten years. Fifteen years. You don’t care about that? You don’t care about your own father?”

“And it’s not just a year and a half for me. This could fuck up my whole life. Am I supposed to send in college applications with a juvenile detention facility as my current address? I don’t think NYU lets in criminals.”

“NYU?” He laughed. “You seriously think you’re going to get into a school like that?”

“I’m smart, Dad, if you haven’t noticed. I’m in college-prep classes. I get good grades. I score crazy high on those stupid IQ tests they make us take.”

“How are you planning on paying for it? Turning tricks?”

“Ever hear of scholarships?”

“Don’t kid yourself. You go to a Podunk high school and no preppy school is ever going to let you in.”

“I don’t believe that. My priest says I’m smart, and he’s the smartest person I’ve ever met.”

“If he’s so smart why’s he a fucking priest?”

“You’re an asshole.”

“I’m not the one who rolled on her father to save her own ass.”

“That’s your own fucking fault,” she shot back. “Nobody asked you to be a criminal. Mom’s got two real jobs. Why couldn’t you get a real job?”

“You want me to work two jobs like your mom and be a frigid miserable bitch like her?”

“Better than being a piece-of-shit lowlife who let his own daughter take the heat for him, right?”

Her father’s hand whipped out and slapped her with such speed she flinched far more from the shock than the pain.

She stared at him, wide-eyed and dazed.

“I hope you rot in jail,” she said. Her father raised his hand to slap her again. She ducked and tried to push past him. He grabbed her and shoved her bodily against the refrigerator. She pushed him back with all her strength and managed to get around him, even as he tried to grab her.

She raced to the door and ran down the four flights of steps as fast as she could and even then she heard her father’s footsteps chasing right behind her. She hit the street and started running again. She turned a corner and found a subway entrance. When she went for her money she realized the horrible fact that she’d left her coat in her dad’s apartment. And it had all her money in it.