Chapter Eighteen: Coffee For One
1128 Words
The street outside the compound was quieter than I expected.
I walked without direction. Just movement.
Frank’s voice followed anyway, pressing against my ribs like a weight I couldn’t shake.
I stopped at the first place I found that wasn't his house. A small café on the corner. Chairs outside. Nobody looking at me.
I sat down. Ordered nothing and stared at the table.
"You look terrible."
My head snapped up.
Magnus Vance sat down across from me like he had been waiting for the chair to be warm. Same face. Same careful grooming. Same eyes.
The back of my neck prickled. Then, the feeling drained out of my arms like someone had cut the wires. For a second, I couldn't feel my hands.
"Don't." He said it quietly enough that the couple at the next table kept laughing.
"Don't run. Don't scream. We're in public, and you know I won't do anything here." He settled back. "I just want to talk."
"You followed me."
"I was already here." He glanced at the street. "I told you I was close."
My fingers stayed spread against the wood, stuck there like they'd grown out of the table. I didn't trust them to move.
If they did, I wasn't sure if I would hit him or run.
"Say what you came to say."
"No, hello? No, how have you been?" He smiled. "It's been two years, Jane."
"Say what you came to say, Magnus."
He looked at me for a moment. Then he nodded slightly like I had passed some small test.
"You came out alone," he said. "No guards. No, Frank." A pause. "You guys had a fight?"
"That's none of your business."
"It became my business the moment he brought you inside those walls." He leaned forward slightly. "He knew exactly what he was doing when he found you. You understand that."
"He told me why he found me."
"Did he."
"Yes."
"And you believed him."
"I'm still deciding."
"That's the most honest thing you've said since you sat down."
"I'm not here to be analyzed."
"You're here because you walked out of his house after a fight and ended up exactly where I asked you to be." He tilted his head. "What does that tell you."
"It tells me I make my own decisions." I pressed my teeth together so hard my molars started to ache.
"It tells me he doesn't have you as completely as he thinks. Which means there's still time."
"Time for what."
"To get out before it's too late to get out clean."
I looked at the face I had spent two years being afraid of. Sitting across a café table from me in broad daylight like none of it had happened.
"You almost killed me."
"I know."
"And you think I'm going to sit here and let you tell me to trust you over Frank Costello."
"I think that you're smart enough to know that the enemy you understand is safer than the one you don't."
I felt the weight of his eyes on me, like my ribs were under a clamp.
"You understand me, Jane. You always did. That's why you survived me."
"I survived you by running."
"You survived me because I let you run. Think about that."
"What do you want?"
"I want you to ask the right questions." He folded his hands on the table. "Starting with Sofia."
"What do you know about Sofia?"
"Did he tell you who she was before he told you he was looking for her. Or did that come after he'd already made sure you had nowhere else to go."
"That's not—"
"The timing, Jane. Think about the timing. He tells people what they need to hear when they need to hear it. Not before." He paused. "That's not honesty. That's architecture."
His eyes flicked across my face like he was reading something written there.
"You're describing yourself."
"I'm describing both of us. The difference is that I'm not pretending to be in love with you."
My hands pressed harder into the table.
"Don't."
"He isolates first. Cuts off every exit quietly so you don't notice until you're already in too deep to leave without losing something."
"How many people do you talk to outside his house, Jane? How many people know where you are?"
I said nothing.
"Elowen. Once. Maybe twice. Always from a monitored line." He paused. "Anyone else?"
"Stop."
"I'm not telling you anything that isn't true."
"You're telling me half of everything and calling it the truth."
One eyebrow lifted slightly. "There she is."
"Don't do that either."
"You're right, though." He sat back. "Half truths. Fine. Ask me a direct question, and I'll give you a direct answer."
I looked at him.
Every instinct I had was screaming and was telling me to stand up and walk away and never look back.
I stayed in the chair.
"The finger," I said. "The package in the medical supplies. You said it wasn't you."
"It wasn't."
"Then who."
"Someone inside that compound who wants Frank to feel the walls closing in. Someone who has been waiting for the right moment for a long time."
"Who."
"Someone he trusts completely." Magnus paused, tapping a fingertip against the table.
"Someone who has been inside his world long enough to know exactly where every body is buried.”
I had to swallow before I could speak, and there wasn't enough spit in my mouth to make it easy.
"You know who it is. Tell me."
"Not yet. You're not ready to hear it yet. And frankly, you wouldn't believe me if I told you."
"Try me."
He looked at me for a long moment. Then his eyes dropped to the table.
"Ask Frank about the Russo family," he said finally. And watch his face when you do.”
"Why."
"Because the answer to your source problem and the answer to Sofia and the answer to who sent that package are all the same answer."
Goosebumps crawled down my arms, fine hairs rising like static on my skin, and then the feeling drained from them.
"And Frank has known it for longer than he's told you."
I stared at him.
"You have my number." He stood. Straightened his jacket and then brushed an invisible speck from his sleeve.
"Call me when you're ready to hear the rest."
He took two steps away from the table.
Stopped.
Turned back.
"One more thing. The person feeding me information."
I looked up at him.
"They're not doing it for me. They're doing it because they have been watching Frank Costello destroy people who trust him for a very long time."
"The way he destroyed Sofia."
Magnus watched me for a second.
Then he walked away.
- Writer
