Chapter 34
Chapter 34:
The helicopter landed on the rooftop of Heron Lake Manor at half past two in the afternoon, and the bodyguards deposited Callum and Declan on the concrete with the tender care of men unloading sandbags.
They didn’t say goodbye.
Didn’t apologize.
Didn’t leave a card. The helicopter lifted again before either man had finished struggling to his knees, and within thirty seconds it was a dark shape against the pale sky, banking south toward Thornfield, its rotors fading into the distance like the last notes of a song no one had asked to hear.
Callum sat on the rooftop. His wrists were raw — the zip ties had left red welts that would darken to bruises by evening — and his suit, the same charcoal suit he’d put on thirty-six hours ago in a different life, was creased and stained with helicopter grease. He looked, for the first time in his adult life, like a man who had been defeated by something other than a market correction.
Declan was already working on his restraints, twisting his wrists with the focused aggression of a man who had spent his career extracting himself from wreckage.
Footsteps.
Fast, light, ascending the rooftop staircase. Then the door banged open and Bridget appeared — out of breath, wide-eyed, her face a portrait of photogenic alarm.
“Are you okay p>
She rushed toward them, dropping to her knees beside Callum, reaching for his wrists with the practiced urgency of a woman who had calibrated her concern to the exact frequency that produced maximum protective response. Her fingers worked at the zip ties. Her eyes glistened. Her lower lip performed its signature tremor.
Callum didn’t look at her.
He freed himself from the last tie, stood, rubbed his wrists once — a clinical gesture, inventory rather than comfort — and walked past Bridget toward the staircase without speaking. Without acknowledging her presence. Without making eye contact.
Bridget’s hands, still extended, closed around air.
Declan followed. His anger — vast, directionless, the anger of a man who had no one to blame except himself and wasn’t ready to accept that — radiated from him like heat from an engine block. He walked past Bridget without touching the water or comfort she was trying to offer, his footsteps heavy on the stairs, his jaw a locked machine.
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In the living room, Bridget tried again. She brought hot water — two cups, placed carefully on the coffee table, handles turned toward where they sat.
A small, domestic offering.
A gesture from the playbook that had worked for a month.
“Did you go to Thornfield?” She was standing at the edge of the room, her hands worrying the sleeve of her sweater, her voice tuned to the frequency of anxious innocence. “Did you find Lala? Is she okay p>
She paused. Recalibrated.
Added, more quietly: “She has such a wonderful family. I’m sure she’s fine p>
In the silence that followed, Bridget’s mind was running its own calculations — faster, more strategic, than either man would have credited her with. Lara had a family. Lara had Thornfield. Lara had everything, and Bridget had this villa and these two men and the careful architecture of a position that was suddenly, alarmingly, less secure than it had been twenty-four hours ago. The calculation was simple: if Lara was gone — truly gone, permanently gone — then Bridget had won.
But winning only counted if the winners were still playing.
Callum’s eyes lifted. They settled on Bridget with a focus she hadn’t seen before — not warm, not protective, not even angry.
Analytical. The gaze of a man who had just realized he’d been looking at a painting from the wrong distance, and the new perspective revealed something the old one had hidden.