Charlie briefly stopped mixing. “What makes you think that?”
“Well, you know when we—” Max abruptly cut off her own words and looked around the room. “Uh . . . you know . . . when we were in the Mercedes near where we picked up Stevie?” she asked vaguely.
“Yeah,” Charlie said.
“That time, they didn’t try to blow us all away. They tried to negotiate, which only makes sense . . .”
“If they wanted Stevie.” Charlie began mixing again. “Unbelievable,” she snapped. “He sold her again.”
Vic’s head snapped up. “Wait . . . what?”
But the sisters ignored him.
“We’ve got to get out of here,” Charlie told her sisters.
“Wait,” Berg said before they could leave. “I have a place for you guys. A safe place.”
Charlie gave him a very small smile. “I don’t feel right getting you involved. You know . . . again.”
“It’s already set up. I promise, you can’t find a safer place.”
Max snorted. “Like we haven’t heard that before.”
“If my brother says it’s safe,” Dag cut in, “it’s safe.”
“Okay.” Charlie smiled even while Max appeared not to believe a word Berg was saying. But Berg didn’t care if the honey badger believed him or not.
“Just give me ten minutes to finish the cookies and we’ll go.”
She disappeared back into the kitchen and Max pointed at Berg. “You better be right about this. Or I’m going to get cranky.”
“You can’t find a safer place than this one,” he promised, meaning every word.
The pair stared at each other, Max sizing him up, making sure he was telling the truth until Livy threw up her hands and demanded, “Is no one else concerned about what the fuck she’s using to make those cookies?”
* * *
After Charlie put a plate of the most amazing honey-lemon sugar cookies Berg had ever tasted in Livy’s hands—“Where in the unholy fuck did you find stuff to decorate these cookies with?”—Berg took the three women to Grand Central Station, where they caught the Long Island Rail Road.
None of them spoke as they headed out to Queens. Stevie pulled out a reader from her bag, giving her access to thousands of digital books. She read the entire trip and didn’t say a word. Max, with a small smile on her lips, gazed at random people on the train until they got up and moved.
Charlie simply stared out the window.
When they arrived at the Jamaica station, they got off and Berg led them to the garage where he kept his SUV.
The three women silently put their bags in the back of his vehicle and piled inside.
On the drive, Stevie continued to read, Max continued to smile, Charlie continued to stare.
Coop had wanted to come along on this trip but Berg had a feeling that the sisters didn’t really want to be bothered with anyone at the moment. The fact that they had to be bothered with Berg was probably a tad more than they could stand. Adding a nosey jackal would no doubt push one or all three of them over the edge. So Dag took the maestro home and Berg was here.
Berg turned onto his street. He loved this Queens neighborhood and had been grateful when he’d found it. Living in the City wasn’t really his thing. He’d been raised in Washington, after all, and with his parents, he was used to a much more . . . relaxed way of life.
He got out of his SUV and went to the back. He pulled out their bags just as his phone went off.
Berg looked at the screen and cringed. His sister’s text was in all caps. That was never good.
“Uh, I’ll be right back, ladies,” he said, pointing at the house he’d secured for them. “Why don’t you guys have a look around the yard.”
Berg started across the street until he got another all cap text . . . then he ran.
* * *
Charlie stood by her sisters, the three of them staring out over the Queens street that Berg had taken them to before running away like he was on fire.
She briefly wondered if he’d actually come back. Considering the day she’d already had . . . she wouldn’t be surprised to find out that this was all an elaborate setup to kill her and Max and take Stevie, and the sweet bear was the great mastermind behind it all.
It would be her luck, wouldn’t it?
“I guess this could be less safe,” Max commented, her gaze examining everything quickly and closely.
Charlie glanced down one side of the street and then the other. “What does that mean? What’s wrong with it?”
Max watched her for a moment before asking, “We need to get your allergy meds, sweetie.” She briefly glanced at Stevie, who was staring up at the sky. “And this one needs to be less oblivious.”
“Why? What am I missing?” Charlie asked before she sniffed the air. But she couldn’t detect anything. She really needed her meds. “What am I not smelling?”
“Don’t sweat it.” Max sighed. “It’s not like we have a lot of choices.”
Because, once again, their father had made choices impossible for his daughters.
“It’s very nice, though,” Stevie remarked. “You know . . . for Queens.”
Max glanced at her sister. “What do you know about Queens?”
“I know about lots of places. Been to lots of places. You’re not the only one who travels a lot, Maxie MacKilligan.”
“You travel from lab to lab and mental hospital to mental hospital. Not exactly like you’re taking in the scenery on your way to and from.”
“How do you know what I do or don’t do? You’re never around.”
“Because I know you. You’re the only person I’ve ever met who didn’t have time to notice the Eiffel Tower while in Paris.”
“I was busy! And I’ll have you know I’ve seen it since.”
“You three the sisters?” a gruff voice asked from behind them.
Max instantly went for one of the knives she kept on her body at all times, forcing Charlie to grab her hand before she could pull one free. A skill she’d taught herself very early in life so that she could keep her middle sister out of juvenile detention and then, when Max was older, prison.
Stevie, also startled, screamed like she’d been stabbed, her back arching, before she flipped herself onto the nearest tree trunk, her claws digging in. With a warning hiss, she scrambled backward up into the branches, disappearing among the leaves.
The gruff man who’d been standing behind them stared at the tree, wide eyes wider. “Uhhhhh . . .”
Stepping in front of her middle sister—so if Max tried to stab anyone, she’d have to take Charlie out first—she held out her hand.
“Charlie MacKilligan,” she said, introducing herself. “This is my sister, Max, and in the tree is Stevie.”
Big brown eyes focused on Charlie. “Why do you all have boy names?” he asked, now appearing nervous. Not that Charlie blamed him.
“My father always wanted boys. But, like Henry the Eighth, he only got girls.”
“Actually,” Stevie explained from her hiding place in the tree, “Henry had a son and he was crowned king after his father’s death, but he was sickly.