Page 16 of The Knight (Endgame 2)
“Finally, an upside to your total ruin.”
“I’ll drink to that.”
Total ruin. If there’s one thing I can say about Gabriel Miller, he’s thorough. His goals aren’t good, his methods rarely kind, but you can depend on his ruthlessness. In a perverse way I can count on him more than I could count on Justin.
I sleep that night with a deep, dreamless security that only alcohol can bring.Chapter TenHorrible pounding drags me out of sleep.
I squint against the harsh sunlight streaming between the vertical blinds. What’s happening? It sounds like the entire motel is coming down. Construction? Asteroids? Anything seems possible in my delirious confusion. There’s a warm weight across my legs, holding me down.
“Gabriel?”
The world comes into focus, and I realize it’s Harper’s legs pinning me down. And I said Gabriel’s name. Out loud. How embarrassing. At least Harper is more groggy than me.
“What’s happening?” she mumbles, dragging a pillow over her head.
The events from yesterday come back to me in reverse order: the late-night chat, finding Harper in my room. Meeting with Uncle Landon. Oh God. The auction. It’s today!
A knock comes at the door, more insistent.
“Coming,” I shout, fighting with Harper’s limbs and the sheets around my ankles.
Harper groans. “Make it stop.”
I fling open the door to find Will standing outside the door. His brown eyes widen as he takes in my state of undress—a tank top and panties. A small sound of surprise and I slam the door shut. “Why are you knocking?” I call through the door. I know from Chastity’s soundtrack how thin these walls are.
“There’s a limo in the parking lot. Pretty sure it’s for you.”
“Ten minutes,” I shout.
“Whatever,” comes the reply.
The water here takes forever to warm up, but the upside to freezing cold water is I’m wide awake after my shower. I brush my hair and throw on jeans and a T-shirt, this one announcing my inclusion in the Prep Academy chess club. Glancing at myself in the mirror, with damp hair and no makeup, I look like I might be in high school—not about to bid a million dollars in a high-stakes fight for my family.
A knock comes again.
I fling open the door, shouting, “I said I’m coming.”
The driver stands there, expression carefully blank. “Yes, of course.”
“Sorry,” I say, blushing. I look sideways, but Will has disappeared. “I’m ready.”
“Yes, miss.”
Harper seems to have gone back to sleep, judging from the soft, somehow feminine snore, so I don’t bother to wake her. Instead I throw myself into the back seat of the limo, breathless and urgent. He rolls out of the parking lot with careful slowness. How late am I?
Nervously I tap on the dividing window.
It rolls down. “Yes, miss?”
“Umm, what time is it?”
“Ten o’clock.”
I blink. “I thought the auction doesn’t start until three.”
“Mr. Miller thought you might like to spend time in the house before the auction.”
Because I might not win. This might be my last chance to see my mother’s home.
“Oh. That’s…nice of him.” Suspicion rises up, and I force it back down. Why do I always think the worst of Gabriel Miller? Oh, that’s right—because he systematically destroyed my family and defiled me.
“Yes, miss.”
And I have a new resource at my disposal to learn something—the driver. What kind of chess player would I be if I didn’t take advantage of an opening?
“What’s your name?” I ask.
“Byron,” he says, sounding cautious himself.
Apparently exposure to Gabriel Miller heightens paranoia. The driver might have signed some kind of nondisclosure agreement. But I don’t want to know particulars of his habits. And I definitely don’t want any business secrets. What I want to know about is the man.
Purely for manipulative purposes, of course. Not because I actually care about him.
“How long have you worked for Gabriel?”
A pause. “Six years, miss.”
I try to keep my voice casual, as if I’m making conversation—even if we both know I’m fishing. Can he blame me? Both he and I are pawns in Gabriel’s game. Small pieces to be moved around. Unimportant. Powerless. Imagine what we could accomplish if we worked together.
“Were you a driver before that?”
“In a manner of speaking.” There’s another pause, longer this time. I can almost see the roadblock he’s putting up in front of me, the warning signs to turn back. In the end he lets me through. “I was in prison, actually. Before that I drove for an armored car company.”
Prison? My throat tightens. “Oh.”
He continues with less hesitation, as if now that he’s made the decision to tell me, he can share everything. “I got mixed up with a bad crew. They had this plan to knock over a bank, using the armored driver as an inside man. And I would have gone along with it, too.”
Curiosity gets the best of me. “Why didn’t you?”
“When we got close, the plan changed. First I was going to be the only one armed, and I wouldn’t have shot anyone. But then they got ahold of some automatic weapons. They claimed they wouldn’t hurt anyone, but it started getting out of hand. I didn’t want to do it, but I was in too deep.”
