Chapter Text
This one starts as they usually do: with a soft knock at the door.
Paul stands in the rain, rocking a little on the balls of his feet, eyes flicking from window to lighted window. He clasps his hands tightly behind his back to keep his fingers from twitching.
This looks promising. The place is huge and lit up like a fucking Christmas tree; it’s possible that multiple families are inside, judging from the three SUVs in the driveway.
For that reason, he doesn’t trust Tubby to do recon, despite the whining. He wants a challenge, sure, and more people will provide that. But he can’t allow them to be significantly outmatched. While Paul’s skills are rather intimidating, more so with every house, Tubby still tends to overestimate him.
Sometimes Paul honestly doesn’t know why he keeps that creepy little fuck around. They’ve literally been doing this for years—lake homes, private neighborhoods. All over the country. Golf courses are a personal favorite; they give Paul the opportunity to practice his swing. And in all this time, in all the families and homes they’ve laid utter waste to, Peter is always the one to cause any fuck-ups. The Farbers a few years ago was especially bad, and the MacMillans just last month.
Paul will never forget those families, because he was forced to use the remote for them. Only two out of a couple dozen, but it’s enough to make him reconsider this team. Paul hates using the remote; it feels like a failure on his part. The very memory causes a stir of rage, and he has to fight to keep the placid smile on his lips.
But he needs a partner. Doing this alone wouldn’t be feasible. And he’s easy enough to control. At the very least, he can say this about Tubby: he fucking worships Paul.
It’s getting cold, and the wind is picking up, whipping the edges of his raincoat around his thighs. Why hasn’t someone answered the door yet? Rude to keep a visitor waiting so long. Paul shakes the droplets of rain from his hair and leans forward to knock again.
“Yeah, yeah, I heard you the first time,” Scarlett grumbles, padding down the stairs. Her bare feet leave puddles of water in the wake of each step. She wrapped a long, Oriental-style silk robe around her bare body upon stepping out of the bath, and she wonders vaguely whether she’ll have to go to jail in it. Police usually pound the goddamn door down, but she heard somewhere that the FBI knock gently. And if they’ve found this house—Jack’s haven of havens, his holiest of holies—they surely know enough about Scarlett to arrest her on sight.
It’s not the goddamn cops, she tells herself firmly before reaching the bottom of the grand staircase.
Then who is it? One of Jack’s goons? They know not to come here uninvited. Jack himself? The thought sends a chill down her spine. But why would he knock at his own door?
For the third time in as many minutes, Scarlett has to push hard against the vague, unbidden thought that burst into her skull at the sound of the first knock.
This is not a sign. This means nothing. It’s not the cops, it’s not Jack, and it is not a fucking sign.
Despite the fact that, not seconds before, she was asking for one.
Pausing in the foyer, Scarlett glances into the mirror by the door and pats a damp curl of dark red hair back into the messy bun atop her head. God, her eyes look like shit. The dark circles underneath are bad enough, but they’re also bloodshot and a little puffy. It’s clear she’s been crying. She wipes them impatiently, but it doesn’t help.
She wrenches open the door without even peering out the peephole, having firmly decided that it doesn’t fucking matter who is behind it. She’ll make them leave and continue what she was about to do, or she’ll let herself be arrested. Either way, the nightmare is almost over.
The man standing on her porch smiles politely, nodding in greeting and stepping forward. Despite herself, Scarlett narrows the gap in the door to hide her body. The way the guy keeps his hands folded neatly behind his back, the way his smile doesn’t quite reach his eyes…it reminds her a little too forcibly of Jack.
The young man leans toward her, letting the light from inside illuminate his face. His body-language says shy and courteous. Or it would, if not for the intensity of those bright baby blues. He has some of the biggest, widest eyes she’s ever seen, actually; they’d be lovely if they weren’t such an odd mix of both empty and probing. She supposes he is handsome, in a boyish way that not many men can pull off. He has a long, chiseled jawline and high cheekbones, but his chin has a blue-blooded roundness to it, complemented by full and strangely cherubic lips. His blond hair gives him the vague aspect of a Greek god, even dripping wet and half hidden under a bright yellow raincoat. He looks to be around Scarlett’s age — early twenties. He can’t be much older than that.
Well, he isn’t Jack. That’s good. And he doesn’t look like a cop. Her eyes roam lazily up and down his tall, toned body. In short, he is a pleasant surprise.
“Good evening, ma’am,” he says. Precise and refined diction. A rich kid.
Scarlett glances at the darkening sky. Is it evening already? She quirks an eyebrow at him expectantly.
“Sorry to disturb you,” he says, his eyes flicking past her to get a look inside the house. Scarlett stiffens at this subtle intrusion. That gaze returns to her, and his smile widens. This time it seems genuine, even seems to light up his face, almost childlike. It does not relax her. What does he have to be so fucking happy about?
He must read the distrust in her expression, or maybe it’s her silence, because the grin dies a little as he examines her.
“Really,” he says. “Sorry. I am. Very. It’s just that we—my brother and I—we got caught out in this squall. We were sailing. Stupid, I know. I told him it was a bad day for it, but Tom’s a bit incorrigible.”
He grins again. He’s trying to charm her, Scarlett sees that. And she is charmed, a little. She’s always been drawn in by men who know they’re charismatic.
“It was my mistake,” he continues, “if I’m being fair. The storm hit quicker than I expected. We were too far out to turn back home.”
“So what is it you want, exactly?” Scarlett asks, perhaps less graciously than she should. Her thoughts are on the bath, still waiting upstairs.
The man’s expression flattens. His eyes go empty, and the smile works to keep from sliding away. “As I was saying,” he replies, tone hardening, “the storm hit hard. So we headed for the closest dock. There weren’t a lot of choices. You’re pretty secluded out here, you know?”
It’s clear he doesn’t appreciate her brusqueness. Again, Scarlett is reminded strongly of Jack, though she can’t pinpoint why. Perhaps she's just being paranoid. Not every handsome charmer with sharp eyes is like that fucking psychopath.
“You want to use the phone?” Scarlett asks with forced gentility, trying to soften the crease from between her brows.
The man ducks his head, and his grin reappears. “Thank you,” he says, almost laughing. “Really, that would be much appreciated. Let me just get Peter.”
Didn’t he call him Tom a second ago? a quiet voice whispers at the back of Scarlett’s head, but she brushes it off. Brothers have nicknames and shit for each other, right?
The man turns and steps off the porch, heading in the direction of the waterline. Scarlett strains to peer out after him and unconsciously tightens the belt of her dressing gown. She hears him shout, watches him wave to someone Scarlett can’t see around the corner of the house. After a few moments, a shorter figure plods over, also draped in a bright yellow rain slicker. They speak quickly together in low voices, muted by the rain and a distant roll of thunder. The storm really is getting bad.
Scarlett sighs as the taller brother gestures at the house, and they start toward her again. The thought flits through her mind of the dangers of allowing strange men into her home—while she’s here alone, no less—but fuck it. They can’t be any more of a danger than she already is to herself.
She opens the door for them at their approach, allowing the brothers to step across the threshold. The shorter one, Tom or Peter or whatever his name is, doesn’t look anything like his tall Adonis of a brother. He is doughy of face, more delicate looking, with a wide, thick mouth and eyebrows that nearly meet in the middle. His eyes are as blue as his brother’s, but they’re darker, almond shaped.
For the first time, Scarlett notices that both of them wear dirty white golfing gloves. Or maybe they’re sailing gloves—she knows exactly fuck-all about sailing. Jack has taken her out a few times in his gleaming white boat, but it’s her job to just sit there and look pretty. That’s always her job with Jack. Any questions just earn her a cold look or a biting remark, or worse if he’s in a particularly nasty mood.
In any case, she decides the gloves aren’t as weird as her gut tells her they are.
“This is my brother, Peter,” the handsome one says.
“Pleasure,” Scarlett replies, a little too dryly to be totally polite. But the brothers smile nonetheless.
“What’s your name?” Peter asks, a little rushed and sudden, as if he’s been waiting to speak. His voice is as soft as the rest of him, almost feminine in quality, with a hush that Scarlett finds creepy. The phrase ‘Jeffrey Dahmer type’ echoes through her skull.
She pushes it away. That is not generous of her.
“Sorry, yeah,” she says, taking a deep breath. “I’m Scarlett.” Mind your manners. These guys can’t know what they’ve interrupted. They just need a little help, and then she can get back to the plan. What’s the trouble in one last kind deed? Go out on a good note.
“Scarlett,” the man whose name she still hasn’t caught repeats, smiling again. Maybe she imagined the empty eyes. “Nice to meet you. Oh, and thank you again. You’re really saving us from a lot of trouble.”
“No problem,” Scarlett replies, trying to smile back. “Of course. Anything I can do. You guys want some tea?”
She turns to Peter as she says this, and she’s slightly surprised to find he’s taken a few more steps into the house while her eyes were on his brother. He’s looking around curiously, noting the layout of the entrance hall and, she can’t help but think, Jack’s expensive decorations. He stops and smiles at her when he notices her gaze.
Her eyes flick back to the other man, who is carefully unbuttoning his slicker to remove it. She has time to be a little unnerved by the action. It’s somehow very forward—intimate almost—though she thinks it should be normal. What is wrong with her? The guy is allowed to take off his coat. She watches him reveal a long, lean body covered in preppy, pure white clothing. A golfing outfit, for sure this time. There’s a huge golf course full of rich white yuppies across the lake.
“Tea would be lovely,” Peter says in that soft, refined voice, snapping her away from the view of his brother’s body. “Thank you. Is the kitchen this way?”
With no ado, he paces past her toward the hallway that does, indeed, lead into the kitchen. Scarlett follows him quickly, trailed closely by the other man, and pushes ahead to lead the charge. This is her house; she has the power here. She doesn’t like how imposed upon Peter is making her feel. He doesn’t seem to know or care that he is acting inappropriately.
She flicks on the lights in the kitchen, illuminating granite countertops and fashionable mahogany cupboards. The taller man lets loose a low whistle at the sight.
“It’s a beautiful house,” he says.
“Thank you,” Scarlett replies mechanically, grabbing the tea kettle from the stove and filling it with water. Why are her hands shaking?
She sets the kettle on and turns the stove to high, then goes about taking various teas from the cupboard. Anything to keep her hands busy. She feels nervous, and she doesn’t know why, and she is acutely aware of the men’s eyes on her back as she works. They’re standing at the island in the center of the room, not speaking.
She turns around slowly after laying out the tea in a neat presentation, just as Jack likes, and she leans against the counter, trying to appear casual and controlled. Both pairs of blue eyes are trained on her, and she suddenly feels very vulnerable in nothing more than a silk robe.
“We have a lot of different kinds,” she says, gesturing to the teas laid out. “Jack, my…the guy who owns this place, he likes to think he’s an aficionado or something. Tea and wine, those are his things.” Tea and wine and cocaine. “So you have your pick. Any preference?”
“Whatever you want,” Peter chirps.
At almost the same time, his brother says, “Anything will do. We’re not picky.” His eyes are wandering the kitchen now, noting every detail. Scarlett grabs an oolong, because that’s her favorite, and settles back with the tin in hand, fingers tapping nervously.
The silence stretches on for a painfully long moment.
She breaks it. She’s a good conversationalist—has to be, a lot of the time. “So, what do they call you?” she asks of the better looking brother. His eyes snap onto her. The empty smile is back. In the bright light of the kitchen, Scarlett is sure it is not her imagination.
“I’m sorry,” he says. “That was rude of me. With all this excitement. I’m Paul.” He extends a dirty white-gloved hand toward her, approaching so that she is within reach to shake it.
She glances at the water stains, the brown streaks of dirt half-assedly washed off. She hesitates, and he looks down. He seems to understand, and he lowers his hand. But he does not remove the gloves.
Unease blossoms in Scarlett, gut-deep. Their eyes lock. He smiles—this is all perfectly normal and pleasant.
No, the voice in the back of her head screams. No, it’s not. Something is fucking wrong.
“Peter and Paul?” she asks, quirking her lips to hide her discomfort. Paul feels like he’s standing too close, so she moves away from him to grab three teacups from the cupboard. “Your parents are religious?”
“Yes!” Paul says in a half-delighted laugh. He points at her. “Yes, exactly. Religious. They were extremely religious, isn’t that right, Tom?”
“Extremely religious,” Peter repeats, smiling at his brother as if they have some kind of private joke.
“Peter’s a Catholic, too. How about you, Scarlett? Do you believe in God?”
Scarlett frowns. Quite a personal question. Forward.
“Not really,” she replies truthfully. She’s an unabashed atheist; if there’s one thing Jack has instilled in her, it’s the lack of a god.
“Interesting,” Paul says, his gaze growing pensive as his eyes roam over her. “We don’t hear that answer much around here, do we, Tubby?”
“No, not really.” Peter is losing interest in the conversation, apparently. He’s tracing circles on the granite countertop with a butter knife he found somewhere. Scarlett assumes she left it out earlier.
“Yes, it's pretty interesting.” Paul leans casually against the island, regarding Scarlett with fresh fascination. “I don’t believe in God, either,” he says. “I think that’s kind of an archaic viewpoint, right? With all we know, I mean. Don’t be offended, Tubby, I’m just voicing an opinion here. It’s just, with all we can do, why believe in something you don't know exists?”
“Isn’t man more of a god than God has ever proven to be?” Scarlett adds, nodding, thinking of Jack. “At least he bends the world in measurable ways.”
She doesn’t know how exactly she’s come to be standing in her kitchen discussing philosophy with two complete strangers, but it feels surreal.
“Right!” Paul laughs again. “I like that. ‘Man is more of a god.’ Take your coat off, Peter, you’re dripping all over Scarlett’s kitchen floor.” His eyes snap to his brother at this, but once Peter starts following the order, they return to Scarlett with piercing accuracy. “All the same,” Paul goes on, “is there a reason you don’t have faith? No judgement, of course.”
“You can be completely honest with us, truly,” Peter says, draping his jacket across his arm. “I won’t get offended.”
Why are you so fucking interested in my religious viewpoints ? Scarlett’s head snarls. But her mouth says, “I don’t believe in god for the same reason that anyone who doesn’t believe in a thing doesn’t believe in it. I haven’t been offered enough evidence to settle my doubts.”
“There you are, Tom,” Paul says brightly. “She hasn’t been offered enough evidence to settle her doubts.”
“But if you were,” Peter says. “If you were offered the evidence, I mean. Would you believe?”
“Yes,” Scarlett says instantly. “I mean, I’d be embarrassed as hell.” That earns her an appreciative chuckle from Paul. “But science is the continual revision of facts in light of new evidence. I can swing with that. I just have a problem with faith—the denial of facts, so a system of belief can be preserved.” This is an argument she’s used to defending—this fucking speech is well rehearsed. Funny how she’s spewing it again on the night she plans to find out for certain if heaven or hell exist.
“She’s smart, isn’t she?” Paul asks, turning to Peter, who nods dumbly. Scarlett isn’t completely convinced the shorter brother follows her line of thinking, but Paul certainly does. He gazes at her for a long time, arms folded across his chest, a little smile playing around the corners of his mouth.
Peter speaks up abruptly. “Could you tell us, are there any other—“
At this moment the shrill of the tea kettle goes off, drowning out the rest of Peter’s question. Scarlett hurriedly removes it from the heat and flicks off the stove burner. She pours the steaming water into three porcelain cups and adds the tea in personal strainers. She places it all on a silver tray with sugar and milk and brings it over to the men standing at the center island.
“Sorry,” she says to Peter as she works. “I missed that.”
“Tom was wondering if anyone else was home,” Paul says with a serene smile.
And with that question, Scarlett is startled out of whatever comfort she felt during the god conversation. But she doesn’t see a good reason to lie, except that vague, unfounded feeling that something is wrong.
“Uh, no.” She frowns at Paul, who shrugs. Another beat of silence, more pregnant than those before. “Listen, did you want—”
“Who do those cars belong to?” Peter interrupts her.
“Sorry?” she asks, turning to him.
“I said, ‘Who do those cars belong to?’ The ones out front.”
“Oh. My boyfriend. He keeps them up here sometimes.” Scarlett folds her arms across her chest, not liking the emphasis on the subject of her being here alone. “He’ll be back soon.” A lie, but they can’t know that.
“Up here?” Paul asks. “This is your lake home then?”
“His. Jack’s. My boyfriend’s.”
“Okay,” Paul says. The men glance at each other, a silent, barely perceptible communication passing between them. She can’t guess at what, but it seems conspiratorial. Scarlett shifts, discomfort mounting with every second that ticks by. Now she just wants them to leave.
“Did you want to use my phone?” she says. “Call a cab or something? I’m sorry, I can’t have you stay ‘til the storm lets up. My boyfriend doesn’t want guests tonight.”
I want you to get the fuck out of my house. She’s sure they hear that there, buried in the polite words. Paul is smiling broadly.
“That would be awesome, thank you,” he says.
“Um…” Scarlett looks around, realizing she left her cellphone upstairs in the bedroom. “Hold on, I have to go get it.”
She beats a hasty retreat from the kitchen, feeling unnerved, thinking maybe she should grab Jack’s gun from the closet and put some clothes on, just in case.
“I’m gonna change, too,” she calls from the stairs. “I’ll just be a second. Enjoy the tea.”
She glances back and is startled to find Paul following her to the foyer. He leans against the banister of the staircase.
“Take your time,” he says.