“You don’t have any bodyguards, I see,” Bex said, looking around the room. It was an office, not very big—just large enough for an old desk, a chair, and a short leather sofa that rested beneath the only window. There were a rumpled pillow and blanket, and the trash can overflowed with take-out containers and week-old newspapers.
“I guess that makes sense,” Bex added. “You’re not sure who you can trust, are you?”
“I know the feeling,” I said. When I noticed that he was shaking, I added, “Don’t worry. You don’t have to be afraid of us.”
“Oh, I don’t know about that.” Bex laughed. “He could be a little afraid.”
Bex sidled closer, and Walter Knight backed away until he was pressed into his desk and couldn’t move any more.
When Bex spoke again, her voice was so low it was almost a whisper. “Elias Crane the sixth is dead, Sir Walter. You probably heard about his car accident.” Bex made little quote marks above her head, emphasizing the word. “Oh, I bet that drove you crazy, wondering if it really was an accident. I mean, it’s possible he’d just had too much to drink when he drove his BMW off that cliff. But when Charlene Dubois went missing while driving her kids to school…” Bex let the words draw out. She made a tsk tsk tsk sound. “That you couldn’t chalk up to coincidence. So you went on the run.” She threw her arms out wide in the small space. “And you came here.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about!” Sir Walter shouted, but Bex just shook her head.
“Yes, you do. Why else would you be sleeping on the couch in an office that’s supposed to be abandoned, instead of at your London flat? Or your French villa? Or even your Swiss chalet? I have to say, this was a pretty smart decision. Squatting in a library. Clever. I bet a lot of people don’t even know that Cambridge sees it as a feather in their cap for a former British prime minister to have an honorary office here. It’s nice. It took us a while to track you down. But we did track you down, of course. And we won’t be the only ones.”
“The first rule of running, Sir Walter,” I told him. “Never go anyplace familiar.”
He was shaking his head and saying, “No. No. You have the wrong man.”
“No, we don’t,” I told him. “You are Walter Knight, son of Avery Knight, great-great-great grandson of Thomas Avery McKnight. Tell me, did your great-grandfather change the family name because it made it easier for an Irish boy to rise to power in the British government at the turn of the century? Or was it because of the Circle?”
“What is your point?”
“I saw your great-great-great grandfather’s name on a list once.” I put my hand in my pocket and felt the piece of paper that I kept there, while the image flashed through my mind. That list had been buried in my subconscious for years, but once I’d remembered it, I hadn’t been able to forget it. The names written there were going to haunt me until the descendants of every last one of those men was collected and accounted for. “It was a list of very angry—very powerful—men. Now their descendants are very powerful people. And, as you know, Sir Walter, somebody wants you dead.”
“Get out!” he snapped, and pointed toward the door. “Get out now. Before I—”
“Before you what?” Bex grabbed him by the collar.
“You won’t be safe here,” I said, and watched the words land, the realization sweeping him off his feet. He walked to the window and sank onto the couch, pushing aside the pillow and blanket.
“Does the CIA know you’re here?” Sir Walter asked. “Don’t tell me they’re sending little girls to do their dirty work these days.”
Sure, I should have felt insulted. After all, this man and the goons who worked for him had been trying to kill me for months. And failing. If anyone knew not to underestimate a Gallagher Girl, it should have been this guy. But in my professional opinion, guys almost always underestimate girls. And honestly, we Gallagher Girls wouldn’t have it any other way.
His gaze shifted quickly from Bex to me. He looked between us as if expecting one of us to teleport out of there and come back with reinforcements.
“Your former…associate…Catherine Goode. She killed Crane. You know that, right?” I asked, but he said nothing. “And Charlene Dubois didn’t just go for a drive and forget to come home.”
“Charlene…is she dead?”
“Maybe. Probably. But you know Catherine better than we do, so tell me—why do you think she is picking off the leaders of the Circle of Cavan?”
“She’s crazy,” the man said with a scowl, and I knew from experience he was right. “She hates us. She wants to control things, and what she can’t control she destroys.”
I thought about Catherine Goode’s son. She hadn’t been able to control him. Did that mean she was bound to someday destroy him too?
“They’re coming for you, Sir Walter.” I shook my head. “And they won’t be as nice as we are.”
“I’m not in the Circle of Cavan,” the man spat.
Bex shook her head slowly. “Wrong answer.”
“I’m not!” This time, he shouted. “I’m not a part of that anymore.”
“It’s not the Boy Scouts,” I told him. “They don’t let you walk away.”
“I’m finished. And…and…this is your fault.” He pointed in my direction. “You should have had the decency to die when we needed you to.”
“Sorry,” I admitted. “I’ve been going through a bit of a rebellious streak. I swear it’s almost over.”