Page 54 of Deep (Chicago Underground 8)
“What?” I said, angry now. “You don’t agree?”
“What I think doesn’t matter.”
“That’s a first,” I muttered.
“If you don’t want it, throw it away.”
Except it wasn’t that simple, and he knew it. “Tell me about the ring, the one you wear on a chain,” I demanded.
I expected him to refuse me, and I was looking forward to the fight. He wasn’t the person I was mad at, but he was the only one here, in the shadowed backseat of the vehicle. Luke and Shelly had gone back inside their house, doors locked, lights off. The privacy divider was up, blocking Adrian from view. We were alone.
“It was my mother’s,” he said. “Her wedding band. I keep it as a reminder of what happens if I’m not strong.”
“Oh, Philip.” My heart clenched. “It wasn’t your fault, what your father did.”
“She died because I didn’t protect her.”
“How old were you?”
“Twelve.”
“God, Philip. You can’t—”
He rapped twice on the roof of the car, and it immediately glided forward. “What I can and cannot do is not the question. The question is, what are you going to do with that, now that you have it?”
And the sad truth was, I just didn’t know.
Chapter Twenty-Five
WE DROVE HOME in silence, the necklace like a hot ember in my jeans pocket.
Tension ran through Philip’s body in thick, furious waves, radiating from him. His posture was relaxed enough, body leaned back, one leg slung over the other. He might have been a billionaire playboy coming home from a night of fast money and fast women. Only if you looked at his eyes would you see the banked rage over who had targeted him—who targeted my family to get to him.
We arrived back at the house just as dawn touched the horizon, spilling yellow over treetops and distant steeples. A thick fog made everything look hazy, like being a little drunk even if I hadn’t had a drink. I wasn’t sure whether it was tiredness or the stress of the past few days. We had spent the whole night chasing scary possibilities, nightmares, and I thought it was a metaphor for my entire time with Philip—a race toward some dark finish line.
Inside the safe house I crossed the cream marble floor to the far wall. Windows stretched from the ceiling to the floor, my reflection staring back at me. Only up close could I see the trees and city lights. They seemed small from where I stood, as if I looked into a curio cabinet of little figurines. This was how Philip must feel every day, as if we were small—as if I was small.
I watched Philip as he approached me, a shadow looming over the curio-cabinet city.
“Can I call my parents?” I asked softly.
“Of course,” the shadow said.
I hadn’t been sure of his answer. He knew better than to be offended, but at least his answer was resolute. There was a fine line between being helped and being held captive by a man like him.
He held out a simple black phone, and I took it. He remained standing in the living room, watching me. Not leaving, then.
No, not much difference at all.
“Tyler?” My mother. My adoptive mother, one who had never given me a necklace, one who had never really loved me—but she had also clothed me and fed me. She had helped me pick out a dress for my middle school dance.
“No, Mom. It’s me.”
“Oh, honey. They sent us a note.” Her voice cracked. “For ransom.”
My breath caught, and Philip’s gaze sharpened. “How much?” I asked.
“One million dollars.”
