Mondays were generally a drag, but this particular Monday seemed determined to outdo all its predecessors in sheer misery. Zelda found herself seriously contemplating the logistics of a dramatic escape through the nearest window. Landing face-first in poison ivy would be preferable to sitting here with Voight in stony silence. She’d rather stick her hand in a beehive or walk barefoot over hot coals than endure another minute of this unbearable tension.
Her thoughts churned like a storm inside her. Her employer’s betrayal cut deep, fueling a seething anger she couldn’t seem to shake—or hide. She’d brought him his coffee, setting it down with enough force to splash some onto his tablet. He’d thanked her with a curt nod, his lips barely moving, as if afraid that opening his mouth might release something far less polite.
They performed their tasks in a delicate dance of avoidance, each pretending the other didn’t exist. Other people came and went—most in uniform, some in plainclothes—but none dared linger in the charged atmosphere. The silent war raged on, filled with sidelong glances and the occasional dropped file, each clatter echoing like a gunshot.
Voight remained a stoic figure behind his desk, his posture rigid as he tapped his fountain pen against his blotter. She was fine with ballpoints, but he used a Montblanc Meisterstück, its black lacquered body practically shouting pretentiousness. Gold accents gleamed ostentatiously as he twisted the cap off, revealing a finely crafted nib that seemed to glint with arrogance. The pen was just like him: meticulous to a fault, refined to the point of vanity, and exuding an air of unearned authority. Each deliberate stroke on paper felt like a statement of superiority, the smooth flow of ink a reminder of the barriers between them. As she watched him write, she couldn’t help but feel a surge of irritation. Everything about that pen—and the man holding it—seemed designed to remind her of how little and unimportant she was.
He was married. The word buzzed in her head like an annoying fly she couldn’t swat away. How could he? Her chest tightened, not just from betrayal but from a confusing, irrational pang of jealousy she didn’t want to acknowledge. She’d opened up to him, let him see parts of her she kept hidden from the world, and all the while he’d had some wife hidden away somewhere. Her hands shook as she gripped the edge of the filing cabinet, trying to steady herself. It wasn’t just professional respect or camaraderie; it was something deeper, something she wasn’t ready to name. She felt her face flush, anger mixing with a heat she didn’t want to recognize.
His voice cut through the silence, startling her. “The resistance is more concept than organization.”
She kept filing, refusing to look at him, but she could feel the heat of his gaze on her back. Part of her was relieved to hear him speak, breaking the oppressive quiet, but she didn’t want to show it. Instead, she made a show of reading some communiqué about supply chain logistics, her eyes skimming over the meaningless words while her mind raced.
“Dozens of groups,” he continued, “each with different goals and ideas on how to achieve them. We’ve been fighting for decades, and nothing has changed. The lack of coordination is partly a tactic. You can’t be forced to reveal what you don’t know.” He leaned back in his chair, fiddling with his pen as he considered the issue. “Our problem is that it holds us back, too.”
She straightened, curiosity overcoming her reluctance. “Because you don’t know who’s important?”
He offered a slight, almost imperceptible shrug. “Most of these groups, rhetoric aside, accomplish nothing more than dumping mail and playing at running a newspaper. Occasionally, there are acts of sabotage. But murder?” His eyes flickered up, meeting hers. “Rarely does anyone in the resistance commit acts of violence, let alone attack noncombatants.”
That Voight grasped the difference between true heroes and grifters like Bill Smith caught her off guard; it would have been easier for him to tar them all with the same brush. Ted Hood, even in death, symbolized the pure ideals of freedom and justice she’d once so cherished. In stark contrast, Bill’s actions were a grotesque parody, reflecting the malice and brutality that’d corrupted the movement and, in doing so, robbed her of her own faith. She couldn’t think of Hood now without seeing the lifeless body of a kindergartener and feeling sick. “How can anyone believe that murdering children is justified?” she wondered, equal parts incredulous and disgusted.
In response, he tossed her a pamphlet. “Read this.”
Her hands trembled slightly as she caught it. Her own past with writing these kinds of tracts felt like it belonged to someone else, a distant memory from a life she could barely recognize. Whoever produced The Free Man used a mimeograph, ancient technology even by American standards, but the would-be reporters Voight dismissed made do with whatever could be scrounged from this broken world. The text was purple and slightly blurry, printed on paper that felt like fabric.
She started to read.
Fight for every inch! No man, woman, or child is innocent! Germans were rabid wolves, the author continued; putting them down was more than a mercy, it was the only means of halting a deadly infection. Children like Thomas and the others, they only looked like children. They’d been brainwashed into the Führer’s cult, and they’d grow up to be killers just like their adoptive fathers. For every future soldier he eliminated, Bill was saving hundreds, maybe even thousands of lives. Imagine if someone could go back in time and kill Hitler, the author implored her, how much better the world would be? But Zelda, who could rub two brain cells together without them igniting, wasn’t nearly as impressed as she should’ve been. “This last part,” she remarked, “is all about men whispering state secrets between their lovers’ thighs.”
“Sounds like a thrilling afternoon.” Voight’s tone was dry.
“Sex is the real enemy,” she quipped with mock seriousness. “Not war.” Rolling her eyes, she tossed the pamphlet back to him. “Luckily, the Gestapo is apparently larger than we both realize! Which makes sense, given that every woman in New England is apparently a double agent. Oh well,” she added, sighing dramatically. “Love is dead.”
Voight’s smirk twitched at the corner of his mouth, and she wanted to laugh in response, to go back to normal. But the horrible truth hung over them like a dark cloud, the need to point at it an itch that grew and grew until she wanted to claw her skin off. She opened her mouth and shut it again, common sense warring with her burning need to know. There was no point, she told herself; whatever his explanation, he undoubtedly gave the same one to his wife. Her mouth, though, had a mind of its own and the words were out before she could stop them. “Does anyone tell the truth anymore,” she challenged, “or even care what the truth is?”
Opening a report, he didn’t bother to look up. “The truth is a tool,” he stated, his tone deliberately bland.
“The truth is the truth! Which,” she added with a touch of acerbity, “is something you’d do well to remember.”
“And your time,” he retorted, “would be better spent doing as I ask instead of arguing.”
“Right. There’s no point in using my mind when I could be fetching coffee.” Her voice dripped with sarcasm as she glared, fantasizing about kicking him somewhere he’d notice.
She was about to suggest where he could stick that stupid pen when he finally lost it, slapping his hand down on the desk so hard she almost jumped out of her skin. “Tell me,” he demanded sharply, “does this chronic disaffection ever weary you? Or are you so committed to playing the perpetual victim that you’ve forgotten how to be anything else?” Standing, he strode toward the window. “Because I grow tired of your constant defiance and theatrics. Why don’t you?”
Exasperation radiated from him as he glared through the glass, his arms crossed tightly over his chest. She shifted her weight from one foot to the other, her fingers nervously tapping the edge of the files she held. “I should bring these to the storage room,” she faltered.
“Your hostess skills are passable,” he declared, ignoring her attempt to escape. “But reviewing what Klaus sends us would be more useful.” His tone dripped with contempt. “Except no, helping me in any real way is too close to spying, and God forbid you have to compromise, ever.”
Her lower lip trembled, but she forced herself to speak. “What crimes have these people committed?”
He gestured broadly at the stacks of paperwork littering the floor. “Find out for yourself!”
She turned away, pretending to study a portrait on the wall.
The flick of his lighter broke the silence. “Also,” he asked acidly, “what on earth are you wearing?”
“A dress,” she whispered.
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He let out a sharp, frustrated exhale, his breath hissing through clenched teeth. “Are we attending a pantomime after work?”
Her brows knitted together in confusion; Voight had a lot of interests, but Karl Lagerfeld he wasn’t. The part of her that wasn’t fighting back tears couldn’t believe that he’d attack her like this when he was the compulsive liar who popped pills out of a PEZ dispenser. What he knew about women’s fashion wouldn’t fill a thimble, which he undoubtedly couldn’t identify regardless!
“We should go shopping,” he mused, as though talking to himself. “Then I could force you to dress, for once, in something that doesn’t make you look like an irradiated lizard. What is that shade of green?” She heard his footsteps cross the office, followed by the tap, tap of his cigarette against crystal. “And while we’re on the subject of things that upset me, why is your accent so cheap? I know nothing about the rest of your family as you refuse to answer even my most basic questions but your father, at least, was an educated man.”
“Then don’t talk to me,” she snapped.
“Hah!” He let out an exasperated snort. “That’s not an option, is it?”
She put her hand on the door, staring at him. His gaze was still fixed on the outside world, his figure rigid, shrouded in his black uniform. It was hard to believe that this was the same man she’d bared her soul to in the garden. He’d seemed almost gentle, capable of understanding her pain. But the fortress of arrogance and contempt in front of her made him seem like a mirage, a cruel illusion who’d only ever existed in her fantasies. This man was the same monster who’d almost killed Alex, and she was a fool for ever having dared to believe that there could be more to him. Despair came with its own calms, however, and when she spoke again her voice was steady. “No, considering how you keep me prisoner.”
“And a worthless one, at that,” he muttered. He turned, then, his eyes locking onto hers, as though something had just occurred to him. The snide remark still hung between them, but the flicker of doubt crossing his face was unmistakable. His posture softened, the rigidity melting away. “Is that truly how you feel?” he queried, his voice low. “Like a prisoner?”
“How I feel,” she said carefully, “is that when you talk to me like this, I want to die.”
He froze, the color draining from his face. His eyes widened, and his mouth opened slightly as if to speak, but no words came out. His jaw tightened, and he swallowed hard, his expression a mask of shock and disbelief. He stood rooted to the spot, his hand twitching as if wanting to reach out but restrained by an invisible barrier. Then the spell was broken, and she fled.
When she returned, he was standing at the sideboard. She lingered just inside the door, nervous, as he examined the decanter in front of him. Short and stout, it bore heavily gilt panels on both the wide bottom and fluted neck. She’d hidden in the basement as long as she could, but there was nothing to do down there except worry, so here she was facing the music. Voight must’ve heard her, but he didn’t look up; instead, he pulled the stopper free and filled two of the matching glasses with deliberate precision. Walking them over to his desk, he placed them carefully on the blotter before throwing himself into his chair. He pointed to the chair across from him. “Sit.”
She did, and they stared at each other.
He’d offered her scotch at their first meeting; this was Schnapps, a somewhat prescriptive gift from Klaus. He referred to Lagavulin, Voight’s preferred beverage, as tasting like a corpse. Schnapps tasted like a pear that’d been forgotten in a toilet for six months, but no one cared what Zelda thought and her employer didn’t ask. Instead, he lit another Juno and settled into the leather, looking uncomfortable. “Zelda, I….” He seemed to struggle for a moment, searching for the right words. “I shouldn’t have spoken to you like that.”
“No,” she agreed, hiding her surprise. “You shouldn’t.”
She knew he smoked Junos because he’d sent her out for them to Darwin’s, the only market that would take his cash. Sage’s wouldn’t, although Constance still shopped there as far as she and Charlotte knew. Asking Constance how would’ve required the other girl speaking to her, which she wouldn’t, because clearly her life’s dream was running errands for this monument to misplaced arrogance. So, while he struggled, she folded her hands in her lap and waited.
He frowned at his cigarette. “I’m not in the habit of opening up to people.”
Neither was she, she wanted to point out.
“I shared something extremely personal with you.” His tone was reproachful.
“I’m sure your wife would love to hear about it,” she retorted, bristling. “Anna, right?”
His features tightened. “Ex-wife. We’re divorced. Which I was trying to explain, when you stalked off in a huff.”
“Are you sure?” she prodded.
“Once again,” he shot back, “I am sure of my own biographical information.” Looking up, he blew a smoke ring at the ceiling, the gesture weary and almost detached. “I’ve been divorced for one year,” he volunteered, after a moment. “Officially, anyway. But my marriage was over long before that. I haven’t been hiding anything from you, and I wouldn’t.”
Part of her wanted to laugh at the absurdity of it all; the other part couldn’t ignore the hurt that seeped through his otherwise indifferent tone. “What happened?”
He glanced at her, then returned his gaze to what had once been Longfellow’s ceiling. “We knew each other as children,” he began, his voice distant. “We lost touch, then reconnected after I enlisted. We wrote to each other, and visited while I was stationed in France, and then during my time at Junkerschule. After that, I went to the SS Medical Academy in Berlin. We got married after my first year of clinical studies, when I was twenty-five and she was twenty-three.”
Zelda blinked. “You’re a doctor?”
His laugh was short and self-deprecating. “A psychiatrist, no less. Or I would’ve been if I hadn’t quit my PhD program and joined the Gestapo.” Interlacing his fingers, he shook his head. “Medicine seemed like a noble path, a way to make a difference. But the more I saw, the more I realized how futile it felt in the face of everything happening around us. People were dying faster than I could save them, and the chaos was overwhelming. My father, of course, had always wanted me to follow in his footsteps—to serve the Reich in a more direct way. He saw medicine as weak, a distraction, and for a long time that was enough to motivate me.”
“You could’ve done a lot of good,” she ventured cautiously.
A shadow crossed his face. “By the time Sebastian got to the hospital, it was too late.”
“You still feel responsible,” she stated, understanding.
His shoulders sagged. “I wanted to help my patients, to make the world a better place, but it was never enough. In the Gestapo, I thought I’d finally have the power to save children like Sebastian from suffering the same fate, except….” Leaving the admission unspoken, he scowled at his drink. “Anna could put up with being a doctor’s wife, maybe, but she wasn’t about to suffer a career officer’s nomadic existence.”
Zelda’s eyes searched his. “Were you a good husband?”
“I tried to be, but no.” He didn’t sound frustrated now, only exhausted. “I worked too much, she took lovers, and eventually so did I. By the time she filed for divorce, we were living two separate lives. But the period of separation within the Reich is three years,” he added, “and that’s before a petition can be filed.” He flashed her a faint smile. “I told you the process was difficult.”
Picking up her glass, she stared at it. “What’s the point of being married at all?”
Getting up, he went back to the sideboard and poured himself more Schnapps. “At the time, I thought it was what I wanted. Anna was convinced, I discovered later, that I’d come to my senses and accept my father’s offer to take over the business. Her words, not mine.”
Zelda, once again, tried to puzzle through what she’d just heard. “Anna did know, didn’t she?”
“About my father?” Voight grimaced. “She knew. But that was in the past, according to her.” His words dripped with bitterness, his fingers tightening on the neck of the decanter. “She accused me of refusing to provide for her, of denying her the life she deserved to prove some arbitrary point. I told her, in turn, that she was supposed to be making a life with me, not with my inheritance. That fight continued, off and on, for months until I walked in on her with our accountant.”
“Your accountant?” Zelda echoed.
His lips firmed into a flat line. “The next morning, she moved home with her parents.” He came back, his fingers lightly tapping the glass in his hand as the silence between them stretched. “Anna came to visit me the year before last. I was still in Berlin. I thought she wanted to reconcile, and I was deciding how I felt about that when she announced she was in love.”
“With Mr. Numbers?” Zelda arched an eyebrow.
“No, with a man who worked for his family producing sporting equipment. I granted her the divorce,” he said, his voice tinged with resignation. “She had a right to be happy, whatever I thought of her.”
“So she’s in München?” Zelda’s tone was gentle.
“Married,” he affirmed quietly, “with children. The funny thing is, throughout our marriage, I was the one who wanted children. She didn’t. It turns out, she just didn’t want them with me.”
Zelda felt a surge of hatred for this gold-digging diva. “Do you still want children?”
“Yes,” he admitted, before the mask slipped back into place. “You don’t, because you’re a modern woman who values her independence and doesn’t need a man for anything. You’d rather live alone in some tower, like Rapunzel, draping yourself in astonishing fabrics.”
“Given everything I’ve seen,” she said, a wry smile tugging at her lips, “that does seem safest.”
The door burst open and Gretchen appeared, beaming. “We have an invitation!” She waved an envelope in the air, spinning around in a circle. “Who’s ready to party?”