Think of the Devil

Thirty-Three

Jane couldn't remember exactly when she'd decided to move to her fire escape. She remembered drinking a little too much a little too fast. She remembered feeling a bit queasy and warm. She remembered wanting a cigarette. The process of picking herself up and climbing out the window, though, was all a bit fuzzy.

She knew she'd been out there for a while now. She'd left her jacket inside, so all she had to protect herself in the cold was the undershirt she had on beneath her collared shirt. Whatever warmth she'd felt from the vodka had long gone, some of her buzz going with it. She sat balled up, her knees to her chest, and continued to smoke to forget about the chilly night.

But how could she do that when a familiar black SUV was pulling up beneath the fire escape? Jane watched through the grates as two men stepped out of the vehicle and approached her door. She recognized one of them as the suit with the phone from earlier that morning. The other seemed to be another muscle with less of an attitude.

What a long day.

Jane put out her cigarette against one of the grates before pulling herself back through the window. Now on her feet, she stumbled a bit and leaned against the wall as her head spun. Slowly, she started forward and to the door, collecting her coat, gloves, and keys. Heavy knocking met her ears as she forced herself out of the apartment and down the stairs. Gloves on now, she tugged on her coat too before opening the door.

"Miss Cayce," the suit with the phone greeted. (She looks terrible.) "Are you ready to go?"

Jane only offered him a nod, afraid her words might come out a bit muddled. The two waited for her to lock the door behind her before ushering her to the backseat of the SUV, where once again she was left mercifully alone. It gave her the chance to wallow in her maudliness for a while longer.

Her eyes were unseeing as she stared out the window, the tint so dark that not even the streetlights could shine on her face. She had no tears left to cry, a feat she credited to her alcohol consumption numbing her down. Still, the swirl of "what if"s and "could've been"s burdened her like a tangible weight on her shoulders.

Everything felt so pointless now. Everything she'd done to try to help, every secret she'd kept and lie she'd told, where had it gotten her? Matt had run away from her. Alberto didn't want to reconcile. Even if Angélica had left a metaphorical door open for Jane, she knew it was just a matter of time before it would be slammed shut in her face. The path ahead was bleak, guiding her directly to the Presidential Hotel to align herself with a man who was evil incarnate.

She briefly thought about opening the car door and throwing herself into traffic, figuring it couldn't be a worse fate.

I have to do this, she reminded herself. Whatever would happen to her, she thought it was inconsequential now. The legacy she left for Alberto and Angélica though, the safety she could provide them, that's what was important. As long as Fisk got what he wanted, the people she loved were protected. That's all that mattered to her now.

Once again, the SUV drove around the high-rise hotel and entered its parking garage. The second the car came to a stop, the suit with the phone was stepping out of the car and opening her door. The two guards guided her inside but this time they only made it to the lobby, where a small group of people had gathered in the center. The suits left her to take their places guarding the hall, waiting for further instruction.

Jane glanced around, standing unsteadily under the warm glow of the chandelier. A pale older man in a suit stood quietly, his eyes on the ground. Two FBI agents, who she quickly realized were part of Fisk's insider team, waited awkwardly beside one another. Her eyes wandered to a tall man with dark skin and expensive clothes holding a briefcase and glancing at his watch. When he caught her gaze, he put on a polite smile and approached her.