A knock at the door interrupts us, and we look down the stairs to where Liam peers up. “Lunch is ready if you two are hungry.”
Lunch turns out to be homemade ratatouille from a woman who lives onsite. I break the crusty bread to mop the delicious liquid and spices. I think I’m still feeling a little starved from going for days with very little food. When I can finally come up for air, I tell Liam, “I heard you have a daughter. What’s her name?”
He glances at Elijah with an unreadable look. “It’s Samantha. She’s a violinist.”
“Does she play at school?”
“Not really. She’s a prodigy. She’s played for the queen.”
“Wow. That’s incredible.”
“Yes,” he says, looking somewhat more at ease now. And very proud of this Samantha. “She’s an incredible talent. Once-in-a-generation kind of thing.”
“I’d love to hear her play.”
His smile gets more reserved. “She doesn’t perform much these days.”
“I’m glad I got to see you before you go. I really want to tell you how grateful I am for your help. I know you were doing it for Elijah, and we’re basically strangers, but I really do appreciate it.”
He nods. “I’m only sorry I couldn’t find your sister.”
“You had short notice.” I smile at Elijah. “He’s going to help me.”
“Don’t—” Liam says, then stops suddenly. It’s as if the word was torn from him against his will. It hangs in the air between us, harsh and foreboding.
“Don’t what?” I ask softly.
“Yes,” Elijah asks, his tone harder. “Don’t what, brother?”
Liam’s eyes meet mine, a deeper green than Elijah’s, somehow less tortured, though it’s clear they’re both haunted by demons from the past. “Don’t give up hope. You’ll find her.”
We see him off, and another black SUV takes him away.
One of his other men, someone named Carson Blum, stands guard at the door. A security system is required to open the door from both inside and out. Though it looks like a comfortable appartement, it’s clear this is a very secure location. That makes me feel even more relaxed. Adam won’t be able to find us, and even if he did, he wouldn’t be able to get in.
I watch from the window as the SUV pulls away. Then I turn back to Elijah, who remains at the kitchen table, watching me as he twirls a glass of wine. “Can we go check on those inquiries?” I ask, gesturing upstairs. “Maybe if they don’t find anything, we can go to the embassy? Try to explain what happened, why there’s a notice with Interpol.”
He doesn’t answer out loud, but he does stand and cross the room to me.
Something is strange about his mood right now. Ever since his brother said don’t—in that strident, almost worried way. It seemed like he was going to say something else, something more cautionary than not to give up hope.
“I’m going out,” he says, his voice gentle, as if he thinks I might object. “I’ll find out what I can about your sister. Can you trust me to do that for you?”
“Of course.” I put my arms around his neck. “I don’t want to use your time when you’re focused on your mission. I know this is a distraction.”
“Everything about you is a distraction,” he says, sounding frustrated, even angry, and then he kisses me, soothing away the sting. His lips offer regret and apology. His kiss promises to care for me even as he holds himself apart. “Carson is going to stay here with you.”
He enters a long code quickly, and the door latches open. Then he’s gone, and the security system beeps to let me know that it’s active. I wander into the living room, where Carson stands at attention. He gives me a very official-looking nod, and I wave back.
I go back upstairs, hoping to see if someone has responded to one of his inquiries, but of course the laptop is locked. Instead I wander around, touching a small figurine of a dairymaid on the carved fireplace mantel. It would be nice to have a phone, to at least call my parents and let them know I’m okay. They know my sister well enough not to be surprised when she doesn’t answer for a few weeks, but my mom and I have a call every Friday like clockwork.
It was too much to hope that this place would be luxurious and fully complete with a wardrobe for me and have a phone or laptop for me, but I make a mental note to ask Elijah about it when he gets back. Plus, now that I’m safe again, I’d like to start writing.
In the shallow drawer of a desk I find a pad of paper and a pen.
It’s been years since I wrote any of my books this way, but needs must.
Ruby Crouch had seen hundreds of families flow through the front parlor. Some were angry, still in denial about their visit. Others sobbed their goodbyes. Mrs. Crouch guided, comforted, and issued dire warnings—whatever was necessary to ensure enrollment.
The School for Ordinary Girls was not an ordinary school.
This particular family had an air of mourning. There were two children. Only one was eligible to attend. She sat on the armchair in a new dress and patent leather shoes, her feet hanging a few inches above the floor.
Her mother insisted she was a good child, that she always obeyed the rules, that she was kind and good and smart. The room trembled. Her father made threats about what good treatment he required of her. The fire in the fireplace hissed sparks. Her older sister simply cried silent tears that matched the rain outside.
Then it was time for them to leave.
They went down the steps and climbed into their car and drove away. The little girl ran to the window to watch the taillights turn blurry and fade away.
“Come along,” Mrs. Crouch said, for she had learned that it was best for children to become acclimated to their new environments sooner rather than later. “Your room is waiting.”
This is where the child belonged.
Her mother could move the earth. Her father could change fire. Her sister, water. But this child had no special abilities. She was and always would be ordinary.
I sit back and shake out my hand, which isn’t used to writing so much so fast. There’s a lurch in my stomach as I study the words I’ve written. Every story has small pieces of me—what I ate for dinner and how I feel about willow trees. But the characters are made up. The world is made up. And yet I can’t deny the similarities to this family and mine.
Even the parlor where they sat reminds me of the room I’m in. The rain-beaten window looks like the one here. I can almost imagine the Eiffel Tower existing in my story.
Which is ridiculous, for so many reasons. The girl in the story is trapped in the school. She has no options, no way out. I wasn’t left here by well-meaning parents.
This is a safe house. I’m here by choice.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Elijah
Lieutenant Colonel Mark Jefferson is waiting for me at the embassy.
His face is already red. He’s evicted some poor diplomat from their office so he could sit behind a desk which has photos of someone else’s family. Two privates stand at attention on either side of him, props that he uses to emphasize his power. They’re also there to make sure I don’t kill him if he pushes me too far. It’s a perverse sign of respect that he knows I might.