Chapter 7 No.7

Araminta waited until 2:00 AM. She knew the patrol schedules of the Doyle estate better than anyone.

She scaled the trellis on the east wing, her muscles screaming in protest. She slipped through the window she had escaped from the night before-the curtains were gone, but the window was still boarded up with plywood. She pried the wood loose with a rusted garden trowel she found.

She crept into her old room. It had been tossed. Drawers were pulled out, clothes slashed.

She went to the closet. Behind the loose floorboard in the back, the small metal box was still there. Javen hadn't found it.

She grabbed the passports and birth certificates.

The door to the bedroom kicked open.

Light flooded the room from the hallway. Javen stood there, swaying slightly. He held a bottle of whiskey in one hand. A bandage was wrapped around his other hand where she had stabbed him.

"I knew it," he slurred. "I knew the rat would come back for her cheese."

Araminta backed up against the wall. "These are mine, Javen. Let me go."

"You cost me a billion-dollar contract today," Javen snarled. He dropped the bottle. It didn't break; it rolled on the carpet.

He lunged at her.

His hands closed around her throat. He slammed her head back against the wall. Stars exploded in her vision.

"Is it Alfonse?" he shouted, spit flying into her face. "Are you screwing him? Is that how you got the intel?"

Araminta clawed at his bandage. He screamed but didn't let go. His thumbs dug into her windpipe. Black spots danced in her eyes.

"I'm going to kill Griffin," he whispered. "Slowly."

Panic, primal and overwhelming, surged through her.

Her hand flailed out, searching for a weapon. Her fingers brushed cold metal on the dresser.

It was the "Young Entrepreneur of the Year" trophy. A heavy, bronze eagle. A fraud award for a fraud man.

She gripped the wings.

With a guttural cry, she swung it.

CRACK.

The heavy bronze base connected with Javen's shoulder, not his head. The sound was a sickening crunch of bone. He screamed, a raw, animal sound, his grip on her throat vanishing as he staggered back, clutching his now useless arm.

Blood began to pool dark and fast on the carpet.

Araminta gasped, sucking in air. She dropped the trophy. It landed with a dull thud next to his body.

She stared at him. Was he dead? His chest rose shallowly. Not dead. But out cold from the shock and pain.

"Oh god," she whispered.

She stepped over his body. She grabbed the metal box.

She ran.

She didn't care about noise now. She sprinted down the stairs, past the startled night maid, and out the front door.

She ran until her lungs burned, until she was blocks away in a dark alley.

She pulled out her phone. She clutched the Black Card in her pocket. Using it would be like sending up a flare, instantly revealing her location to Alfonse. She was a fugitive now, and she couldn't be sure if he saw her as an asset to protect or a liability to cut loose. She was a fugitive now. Assault with a deadly weapon.

She needed a shield. A legal shield that even the Doyles couldn't penetrate.

Marriage. The trust fund. If she married, the trust unlocked. She could hire the best defense lawyers in the city.

But Alfonse had said no.

She scrolled through her contacts. Harper Lee. Her college roommate.

"Harper," she sobbed when the call connected. "I... I think I killed him. No, I broke his arm. I need to get married. Tomorrow."

"What?" Harper shrieked. "Where are you? I'm coming to get you."