“That generous, anonymous donation to Trinity—” “I had nothing to do with it!”

“Anya, I already know that. Haven’t you ever suspected who did make that donation, though?”

I shook my head. My neck was sore where they had injected me. “The truth is, Mr. Delacroix, I didn’t care. I just wanted to go back to school. I tried to find another school, but none would have me with the weapons charges.”

Charles Delacroix clucked sympathetically. “Our system does make it challenging for parolees to follow the straight and narrow.”

“Who did make the donation?” I asked.

“The donation was made by”—he paused for dramatic effect—“the Friends of Bertha Sinclair.” “Bertha Sinclair?” The name was familiar, and had my head not been pounding, I might even have been able to place it.

“Oh, Anya, I’m terribly disappointed. Aren’t you following the campaign at all? Ms. Bertha Sinclair is the Independent Party candidate for district attorney. She might even beat me the way things are going.”

“Good.”

“It hurts me to hear you say that. Now you’re just being cruel,” Charles Delacroix said. “Which of us is the one in a kennel not even fit for a dog?”

“But back to the Friends of Bertha Sinclair. Lovely Bertha’s campaign first started gaining some real momentum after that unfortunate bus accident. Glad to see you’re well, by the way. And do you happen to know from whence this momentum came?”

I nodded slowly. It was as Mr. Kipling had said. “Because the news linked your name and mine and Win’s all over again. And our relationship makes you seem corrupt. And you are supposed to be Mr. Incorruptible.”

“Bingo. You are the cleverest seventeen-year-old I know. And so those Friends of Bertha Sinclair, not being a stupid lot, came up with a plan that would throw you and my hapless boy together again. They were just waiting for pictures of the two of you. A kiss. A date. But you and Win didn’t deliver those so they took what they could get. A second of indiscretion when Win grabbed your hand across a lunch table.”

My cheeks burned with the memory. I was grateful for the low light.

“I am, frankly, amazed he resisted that long. Win is not known for his restraint. The boy is his mother—all heart, no sense. Alexa, his sister, she was the one like me. Brave and sensible. She was

like you, too. Probably why the boy finds you so compelling, actually.” I said nothing.

“So, to conclude. Every time the story of you and Win is reported, the media gets to imply I’m corrupt and the Sinclair people don’t have to say a darn thing.”

“But it’s over now,” I protested. “The picture runs tomorrow. And that’s the end of it. You’ll take a small hit and then everyone will forget about it.”

“No, Anya. It’s only the beginning. They will wait for you every day after school. They will try to get pictures of you in class. Your peers, because they are young and thoughtless, will find ways to provide them. Win won’t even have to be holding your hand for them to run this same story. He can be standing near you. He can be reported to be in the same building as you. This picture is a game changer, don’t you see?”

“But Win has a girlfriend! Can’t you just tell them that?”

“They’ll say that pictures don’t lie and that Alison Wheeler is a ringer.” “A ringer?”

“A fake. A fraud. Someone my campaign has employed to make it look like you’re not with Win.” “But I’m not with Win!”

“I believe you. And if the polls were better…” Charles Delacroix looked at me with tired eyes. “I’ve thought about what to do, and I could only come up with one thing that puts an end to this story.” “Throwing me back in here? But I didn’t violate our agreement! And you can’t lock someone up for dating your son. I’ll have Mr. Kipling go to the media, and you’ll look like a monster.”

Charles Delacroix seemed not to have heard me. “But you have broken several laws since getting out of Liberty, haven’t you?”

He turned his slate toward me. First, a picture of me bartering with chocolate in Union Square. Then, a picture of me drinking coffee at Fats’s. Finally, a picture of me getting out of Yuji Ono’s car. The photo was time-stamped, 12:25 a.m. Past curfew, in other words. All of these were minor infractions. Unfortunately, I was sitting across from the King of Enforcing Minor Infractions.

“You’ve been having me followed!”

“I needed insurance in case you didn’t honor our arrangement. You are, rightly or wrongly, considered a delinquent. And, as you well know, the light, three-month sentence you received only holds if you don’t continue in your delinquency. If I put you in Liberty for a year, say, it solves two of my problems. No one can say I showed you favoritism, and no more stories about you and Win.”

“I can’t stay here for a year,” I whispered.

“How about six months. The election will be completely over by then.” “I can’t.” I would not cry in front of Charles Delacroix. “I just can’t.”

“In exchange, I can promise you that no one will bother with your little sister, if that’s your concern.”

“Are you threatening me?” I asked.

“Not threatening, bargaining. We’re bargaining here, Anya. Don’t forget, I do have legitimate reasons for returning you to Liberty. Chocolate possession. Caffeine consumption. Curfew infraction.”

I felt like a trapped animal. I was a trapped animal.

I wanted to talk to Mr. Kipling although, on some level, I knew he couldn’t protect me from this. I had been unlucky, yes, but I had also been incredibly foolish. “The election is over the second week of November. Why not let me out at Christmas? That’s three months.”

Charles Delacroix considered my offer. “Let’s say four. The end of January has a nicer ring to it. It could have the appearance of impropriety if you’re out the month after the election.”

I nodded. Charles Delacroix reached his hand through the bars, and after a moment, I shook it. My wrist felt incredibly sore, and I winced.

Charles Delacroix rose. “I’m sorry about this. I’ll make sure you aren’t sent down here again. I only wanted to ensure we were able to speak to each other without being observed.”

“Thank you,” I said weakly. But I knew he was lying. Sending me to the Cellar had been a very specific form of intimidation.

He was about to leave when he turned and kneeled down so that we were face-to-face. “Anya,” he whispered, “why couldn’t you have just made both our lives easier and disappeared for a year? Visited your relatives in Russia? I know you have friends in Japan. A girl like you probably has friends in all the kingdoms of the world.”

“New York is my home, and I wanted to finish high school,” I said lamely. “Your lawyer should never have let you go back to Trinity.”

“Mr. Kipling didn’t want me to. Everything that happened, I caused myself. I should have been more vigilant.”

“Not the bus accident,” Delacroix said. “That was just unlucky. For both of us, I mean.” “And especially for that girl who was killed.”

“Yes, you are right, Anya. Especially for her. Her name was Elizabeth.” Charles Delacroix reached through the bars to touch my cheek. “This place is run atrociously. There are holes. If you happen to slip down one in a week or two, I doubt you would be missed.”

“You’re trying to scare me.”

“The opposite, Anya. I’m trying to help you.”

I was beginning to see his meaning. “How would I ever come back?”

He stood up, taking his thermos with him. “You have a friend who is going to be the new district attorney in New York. A friend who thinks that the prohibition laws are incredibly wrongheaded and have done nothing but ruin lives. A friend who remembers that you did save his son’s life. A friend who will be better able to help you once this blasted campaign is over.” “We are not friends, Mr. Delacroix.”

Charles Delacroix shrugged. “At the moment, perhaps not. But when you have lived as long as I have, you become comfortable with the notion that last year’s enemy may be this year’s friend. The reverse is true, too. Good night, Anya Balanchine. Be well.”