Wolf holds the car door open for me, waiting for me to settle on the seat. That gives him plenty of time to study the drawing on my chest. It was harder to do than I thought it would be, with the mirror reversing my every motion. I used up all the ink in the red and green pens, filling in the shapes over and over again.
I’ll never make it as a tattoo artist. A graffiti artist either. The lettering is a mess. The C and the K infuckare too close together.
Wolf must get tired of staring, because he finally closes the door. I expect him to slam it. This wasn’t the wedding he paid for.
But the door latches with a surprisingly gentle click.
I watch him as he walks in front of the car to the driver’s side, reaching into his inside pocket to retrieve his mobile. His fingers flash over the screen, sending a text. The phone has disappeared before he takes his seat behind the wheel.
The engine starts so smoothly, I barely hear it. That’s the same way Wolf navigates into traffic—cool, controlled, changing lanes like a glacial river.
“Where are we going?” I ask after he clears the first intersection.
“Home.”
Something inside me withers. I don’t want to see the parquet dance floor set up in the garden. I don’t want to hear the too-loud band, luring people into the Macarena and the Chicken Dance.
I’d almost—almost—rather be locked in the basement again. At least my room was quiet.
It takes me a few miles to realize Wolf doesn’t meanmyhome. He’s taking me to his. To ours, I guess. That was the deal. That is what Da bargained for.
I stare at the simple gold band on my left hand, turning it to catch the sun. Wolf glances over after he merges onto the interstate. “Are you cold?” he asks.
I shrug my bare shoulders.
He reaches over to the control panel and taps a button. Warm air begins to breathe through the vents. I drop my hands into my lap. The Bentley eats ten miles.
“So,” I say. “That was your sister?”
“Nutmeg,” he says. An unguarded smile breaks through his frost, clenching something deep inside me. “Megan,” he corrects himself. “I didn’t think she’d make it.”
“I’m sorry you didn’t get a chance to talk with her.”
The smile’s gone now. “I am too.”
“Does she live nearby?”
“No.”
Apparently we’re not going to talk about Megan. Nutmeg. I wonder if she has a nickname for him.
The traffic gets worse as we approach DC. We both pretend Wolf needs his full attention to navigate.
Georgetown is a grid of car-lined narrow streets. Full-grown trees arch over the road, just beginning to leaf out with the fluorescent green of spring. Somehow I’m surprised when Wolf turns into a driveway, stopping in front of an iron gate that looks like it was transplanted from a castle. Brick walls stretch twenty feet high to either side. They’re topped with more iron, long spikes that curve out. I can just make out strands of wire that must be electrified.
After checking a pair of mirrors mounted on either side of the gate, Wolf thumbs a button under his sun visor. The iron bars glides to the side.
The Bentley comes to a stop on a paved driveway in front of a house that fills a city block. The building is all red brick and rippled-glass windows. The trim is blinding white, with a gleaming black front door.
Not bothering to wait for Wolf, I open my door. A garagesits to our right, with doors to four separate bays. A formal garden stretches to the left, boxwood lining beds filled with daffodils and tulips. A cherry tree arches over the far end, pink-white blooms spilling down the branches. I hear birdsong and a distant airplane, but no other sound filters in from the secluded street.
When I turn back to the house, a man has appeared on the top step. He looks like Ichabod Crane—tall and thin, his blond-gray hair combed back on his forehead. Dressed in a black suit like an undertaker, he stares at us without emotion.
“Nilsson, this is Kate. Kate, Nilsson.” I assume that’s a last name. Maybe an only name, like Madonna or Cher.
“Madam,” Nilsson says, inclining his head a precise three degrees. He sounds like a robot, only calmer. He must see that I’m wearing a wedding dress. There’s no way he can miss the drawing on my chest, the hand-high letters that shoutFuck You.But nothing disturbs his blank expression. He doesn’t even blink.
Yeah. He’s not at all like Madonna or Cher.