A stack of cash. I count it, stunned that he’s paying me three thousand dollars. I count back through it again, shoving most of it in my pocket, leaving the last thousand in the envelope. I go inside then, the house silent, no sign of Leo or Melody.
Lorenzo is in his library. I almost walk right in but hesitate. He’s standing beside the table, staring down at the puzzle spread out along it. After a moment, he picks up a piece, trying it a few places before it snaps right in.
I tap on the doorframe.
His eyes flicker my way, but he says nothing, so I don’t move, not going any closer.
Lorenzo tries a few more puzzles pieces in silence, finally getting one into place before saying, “I inherited the orange grove from my father.”
“Oh,” I say, for the third time in an hour.
“I was young, around four, when he died. My mother hired a hitman. I don’t remember much, but I was there when it happened. My mother wanted him dead so she’d inherit everything, not knowing he left it all to me instead.”
“Ouch.”
“She managed to get control of the property while I was still a minor, but I was growing up too fast, and she knew they were running out of time.”
I expect him to continue his story, but he grows quiet, simply working on his puzzle. “So what happened?”
“The same guy who killed my father beat me half to death with a shovel before trying to bury me alive. I was sixteen at the time.”
I gape at him. “Your mother hired the hitman to kill you?”
“Didn’t have to hire him,” he says. “She’d married the motherfucker, so getting rid of the stepson was more like an anniversary present.”
“I, uh… fuck.”
“Together, they had Pretty Boy, the picture perfect little family with only one thing still standing in their way: me. My eighteenth birthday was approaching, so I knew, sooner or later, he was going to try to kill me again.”
“Did he?”
“Never got the chance. They died on the grove they tried to steal from me, so I guess that means I got the last laugh.”
I’m not sure what to say, so I just blurt out the first word that comes to my mind: “Sorry.”
“Don’t apologize to me.”
“Fine,” I say. “I’m not sorry.”
He laughs to himself, plopping down in his chair as he regards me. “You can come in.”
Slowly, I stroll into the library, approaching where he’s sitting. I drop the envelope onto his lap. “A thousand bucks.”
He picks it up, pulling out the cash, and shoves it right into his pocket without counting. Crumpling the envelope, he tosses it aside before pulling me down to him.
His lips are soft as he presses them to mine, kissing me gently, sweetly, his tongue exploring my mouth and caressing mine. It doesn’t last long before he’s pushing me back away, creating some distance between us.
“You taste like oranges,” he says, licking his lips. “Good oranges. Not that cheap watery shit from a box.”
“Does that make you want to ravish me?”
“Or else strangle you,” he says. “You walk a thin line.”
I laugh at that as I turn to walk out, not wanting to press my luck any more tonight, and make it to the doorway when his voice calls out.
“Scarlet?”
I glance back at him. “Yes?”
“I should’ve killed you.”
He says that matter-of-fact. There’s no threat to the words, no anger in his voice, just a stark reality that sounds almost sorrowful. He should’ve killed me.
I’ve stolen from him, used what belongs to him without permission, taking what I have no right to take. But yet I’m still alive, he’s kept me breathing, long after he would’ve killed others for doing what I did. I’m not sure why that is, why he grants me leniency that he doesn’t give others, and judging by his expression, I’d wager a guess that he doesn’t know why he does it, either.
I nod. “You should’ve.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
Three months.
Ninety days.
The little girl couldn’t count that high. She tried to keep track, but she lost her way somewhere in the middle, the days blurring together.
She hadn’t left the palace at all. She’d missed three months of sunshine, missed running barefoot in the grass and soaring high on a swing, chasing butterflies and picking flowers for her mother to keep.
The Tin Man wouldn’t let her go outside. All the doors were full of locks and armed with an alarm. So most days, when she got tired of drawing, she just stood at the window with Buster and stared out, remembering how her mother used to take her to the park every weekend and push her so high on the swings she thought she could fly.
“What are you doing, kitten?”
The little girl turned away from the window, looking to the Tin Man in the doorway of the bedroom. He didn’t look like himself today, not wearing a suit, dressed down in a pair of black shorts and a plain white t-shirt with white sneakers. Tattoos covered him. She never got to see most of them. They weren’t colorful pictures, like some people had, just weird drawings and words in dark ink, like he forgot a piece of paper and wanted to doodle one day.
“Nothing,” she said, because it was true.
She wasn’t doing anything.
Just more waiting.
“Then come on,” he said, nodding his head. “You can come with me to the beach tonight.”
Her eyes widened. The beach? “Can I go swimming?”
“If you can find something to wear to swim. You have five minutes. Be downstairs.”
He walked away. He didn’t have to tell her twice. She tore the bedroom apart, finding a pair of black cotton shorts and a yellow tank top, yanking it on. It wasn’t a swimsuit, but that didn’t matter. She’d swim in a dress if she had to.
She met him downstairs five minutes later, finding him in the foyer, holding a duffel bag with a towel draped over it.
He barely even looked at her before opening the front door, ordering her to go ahead of him. The warm air blasted her when she stepped outside, and she smiled, feeling the last bit of the day’s sun on her face. It was already so late. Did people go swimming at nighttime?
She didn’t ask, not wanting him to change his mind. They drove about ten minutes in his black car before parking near the shoreline. She could see the sand, could smell the water, could feel the breeze on her face as it rustled her messy hair. It was the best feeling ever.
They walked out onto the beach just as the sun set. Nobody was in the water, few people even near the sand. It was closed, she realized. Everything around them was closed, even the amusement park in the distance. Off-season. Coney Island.
“Go on,” he said, “but stay where I can see you.”
“Won’t I get in trouble?”
He scoffed. “From who?”
“The police?”
The Tin Man laughed, like he found the police funny, before waving toward the water. “Go swim. I will keep you out of trouble.”
She didn’t know how he could do that, if swimming was illegal, but she wasn’t going to pass up the chance. She ran off, the sand soft against her bare feet, the water warm as she crashed right into it.
It didn’t matter that she had no one to play with. It didn’t matter that she was out there on her own. After three months of only really having Buster, she was kind of used to being alone.
She laughed, and splashed, soaked from head to toe, sand clinging to every part of her. Her attention drifted to the Tin Man every so often, making sure he could see her, and watched as a group of guys joined him. They stood in the darkness, talking, exchanging things, none of them looking like they were having fun out there on the beach. Flying monkeys. They weren’t like the others, though. These guys were new. They didn’t have tattoos. The Tin Man turned away from them eventually, his attention on her. He waved, motioning for her to come to him.
Time to go.
The little girl ran out of the water, heading straight for him, flinging water everywhere. She skidded to a stop near the group, her stomach queasy.
One man let out a low whistle, a guy with freckles like polka dots and eyes like seaweed. “Man, she looks just like her, doesn’t she?”