LUCIEN MORIARTY HAD NO INTENTION OF KILLING ME. I knew, because he was telling me that verbatim.
“But I want you to know,” he said, throwing another punch into my stomach, “that I have no problem hurting you until you listen to me.”
He had his other arm against my throat, keeping me pinned to the wall. I’d fought against him at first, but I couldn’t get any purchase, my feet sliding on the tiles as he cut off my air. All I’d managed to do was claw some of the buttons off his shirt when he’d first grabbed me out of the stall.
“You’ll do what I say,” he said, and pushed that arm harder against my neck. “If you don’t, I’ll stop. I’ll stop giving you orders. And I’ll start giving them instead to the people who have your sister. Do you understand?”
“What’s your plan?” I croaked out.
“Wouldn’t you like to know. Nod. Nod if you understand.”
I couldn’t manage to nod. I croaked out a “yes” and watched his awful shiny face smirk.
Ted. Ted with his charming accent, with the eyes only for my mother. Ted, bashful, brilliantly happy, Ted who had won everyone over.
Ted with his arm against my windpipe.
I took a shuddering breath. Then I pushed back hard and surged forward, shoving him down onto the floor. He skidded backward until his head hit the concrete wall.
I’d been playing a lot of rugby this last year.
“I want you to know that I’m not going to kill you,” I said, putting my knees down onto his chest. He was conscious, breathing, but there was blood spilling down his forehead into his eyes. “But I want you to know—I don’t have any problems hurting you until you listen to me.”
His breathing was coming hard. “You little shit,” he gasped, and at that moment the bathroom door flew open.
Charlotte Holmes was standing there in a red dress, pointing a pistol at Lucien Moriarty with both hands. The door snapped shut behind her.
“Oh,” she said. “I didn’t know you had this covered.” She put the safety on and slipped the pistol into her bag.
There was a commotion in the main dining room. One lone voice, yelling, I saw her, I saw she had a gun—
Calmly, Holmes flipped the lock behind her.
There were so many things I could have felt in that moment, but the only one I could muster was relief.
I grinned at her. “Hi,” I said.
“Hi,” she said. “What are you going to do about that?” She pointed her toe at Lucien Moriarty. He was struggling to get up, but he was still groggy enough that I could keep him pinned for another few minutes. I told her so.
“Do you have a plan?” I asked, and then I blanched. The last time I let Holmes make the plan—
She must have seen it. “No,” she said. “The gun was my plan. But—it’s not the plan anymore. There’s a window. A small one, up there.”
“So we climb out it. Then what? Remember that he can hear us.”
“Of course I can bloody well hear you—”
I punched Lucien in the mouth. “That’s for my mother,” I informed him. “Or for my sister. For both.”
Holmes raised an eyebrow. “That’s going to leave a mark.”
“But the bleeding head wound, that’s just going to disappear.”
“I didn’t say I wasn’t okay with your decision.”
“You should be,” I said. “The head wound was for you.”
There was someone hammering on the bathroom door. “Come out, we’ve called the police, come out—”
“Get my phone?” I asked her. “I think it’s under the sink.”
“Screen’s cracked,” she said, tossing it to me.
“I’ll charge it to him.” I scrolled through my contacts. “Here. Hold on.”
“Detective Shepard.”
“Shepard,” I said into the phone. “I—”
Lucien shoved hard against me; two seconds later, Holmes had her gun trained on him again. Check him for weapons, I mouthed to her, and she started patting down his legs. “Hi.”
“Is everything okay?”
“Yes. Well. No,” I said into the phone, as Holmes pulled a sheathed knife out of Lucien’s sock. “We’re in the men’s bathroom at Arnold’s restaurant in New York City. Lucien Moriarty married my mother, and now I have him pinned to the floor, and Holmes is here with a gun, and someone’s called the cops.”
“You—you what?”
Holmes darted in around me and yanked a gun out from inside his blazer. Then she pulled out his wallet and his mobile and his passport, one two three, with the clean skill of a pickpocket. Her other hand was steady on the gun.
The hammering on the door was getting harder. “Police!”
“Like I said. Listen, Shepard, I want you to know that we’re going to have to leave him here—”
“Police!”
“—but I can give you the full story when I see you.” Holmes made an all-clear sign with her hands. I nodded.
“This isn’t my jurisdiction,” Shepard was saying.
“I sort of thought you should know anyway.”
“Fine—then get down to the station.”
“Later. We’re kind of busy.”
“Jesus, Jamie, get down there now—” But I’d already hung up. Holmes was stuffing Lucien’s things into her tiny bag.
“Police! We’re opening this door!” Someone throwing their shoulder against it. A splintering sound.
The adrenaline was starting to make its way out of my system. The glow of it, the sudden clarity, the confidence, it was going, and when I got up off Lucien Moriarty I had to wince when I kicked him to stay down.
I was going to do jail time, I realized. It wasn’t even a question anymore.
Holmes nodded to the window. I clambered up onto the sink, then pulled her up next to me, and for a moment, she was flush against me, warm, her hair just under my nose, and I bent to make a cradle with my hands to hoist her up, the way I did when we first met, when I was helping her climb into Dobson’s dorm room. We were better at it now. On the first push up she had the window open; on the second she was out, and reaching a hand down to help me.
The bathroom door cracked, like lightning striking a tree. Lucien Moriarty was stumbling to his feet. Outside, people were screaming.
But I grabbed Charlotte Holmes’s hand, and I scrabbled up the wall with my shoes, and she pulled me out onto the corner of Broadway and Prince. The second we got to our feet, we started to run.