“I’ll show you out,” Liam says.
The lieutenant colonel nods and stands stiffly. Only as he walks to the door do I notice the slight limp. I wonder if he got the wound in combat. He’s far too snake-like for me to feel sorry for him, though. He wields his control over Elijah like a weapon.
“One more thing,” he says, pausing to look at me. “If Elijah does come find you again, however unlikely, our deal is off, Ms. Frank. You may think I’m cruel, but I understand him better than you ever will. He needs the work I’m offering. You would only strangle the life out of him.”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Holly
A vine curls up the front porch of the small and stately house, leaves bright green against white paint, the occasional pop of pink. A butterfly dances from flower to flower, brilliant in the sunshine. The house is the setting of every happy memory in my life. Not the times we were traveling. Only here did I ever feel completely safe.
The SUV rolls to a stop on the gravel path. Before we’re even completely still, the door flies open. My mother has beautiful blonde hair. She’s the very image of my sister, London, who’s sitting beside me. Mom pulls at the driver’s side door, but it’s locked, nothing happens. I’m already pushing out of the backseat, stumbling out of the high step.
My mother grabs me in a bone-crushing hug. “Holly,” she says over and over again. “Holly. Holly. Oh my God, Holly. London.” I’m released so she can grasp my sister the same way.
The next few hours are a blur of tears and homecoming.
Walking inside feels like stepping into my childhood.
The fridge has none of our childhood artwork or travel photos. Instead there’s only a single postcard taped to the stainless steel front. I know without examining closely which one it will be. The one I picked up at a busy tourist stand in Paris and slipped in the mail. We’re safe. We love you. That’s all it said. It was all I could risk telling them at the time.
Despite her shock, or maybe because of it, she insists that Liam North and the other men in our security entourage come inside. She produces a large bowl of chicken salad with grapes and walnuts, focaccia bread, and sliced watermelon.
My father arrives a few minutes later from the automotive store where he’d been. My sister and I are both collected in a hug that smells like rubber and oil.
“Where the hell have you been?” he asks, his voice hoarse with emotion.
I press my face to his barrel chest. “It’s a long story, Daddy.”
“I’ve got all year. Did you get into some trouble? Why didn’t you call me?”
“I couldn’t.”
His expression hardens. “I knew it. Someone hurt you. Did someone touch you? I’m going to kill them. I’m going to call the cops. Hell, I can’t even decide which one. Who hurt you, sweetheart?”
Hearing him use the word sweetheart, the same endearment Elijah uses, makes my cheeks heat. “Don’t call the cops. It’s complicated.”
Complicated doesn’t begin to describe the experience of the past year. For example, there may or may not be a warrant out for my arrest in multiple countries. The lieutenant colonel promised it would go away, but exactly how long would that take?
Daddy’s expression darkens. “Whatever you two got mixed up in, we can fix it.”
I glance at London, who’s being hugged by our mother. And probably grilled, the same way I’m being grilled by my dad. London was always the spitting image of our mother. Whereas I take after my dad more, sturdy and strong. We’re earthenware while they’re teacups.
“I don’t know how to tell you,” I admit in a whisper.
Liam North appears at my side. He nods to my father with that military precision he has. “I’d be happy to fill you in, sir, if you’d like.”
“Yes.” Daddy pulls me into a tight hug. “You’re not going to disappear when I turn around, are you, pumpkin? I was worried about you.”
“I’ll be here,” I promise, hot tears welling in my eyes.
He steps outside with Liam North, and London follows them outside. I can still hear the rumbles from inside the kitchen as the other men finish eating.
That leaves my mother and me alone in the living room.
She clasps me close again. “Holly. What on earth? Why aren’t we calling the cops?”
“It’s a long story,” I say, the same thing I told my dad.
The look she gives me is knowing and infinitely patient. “Then let’s go sit down in the bedroom. I need a pillow to hold while you tell me this.”
I expect her to lead me to my old bedroom upstairs but instead she takes me to the master bedroom. If walking into the house was like stepping into my childhood, climbing onto the California king bed is like reverting to my toddler state. I feel warm and safe. As if a thunderstorm is outside the house, but it can never touch me here on this embroidered bedspread. She hands me a velvety throw pillow, and I wrap my arms around it. Then she sits close, close enough that I can feel her warmth.
Something that had been strong for the past year, competent and cool, that part of me cracks. The comfort of the room is a hairline fracture. The compassion in her touch is what breaks me into a million pieces. I begin to cry, dropping large, hot tears onto the pillow.
“Oh, Mama,” I say on a sigh. I haven’t called her that in over a decade.
She takes my hand in hers. “You know you can tell me anything.”
It’s something a lot of parents say, and I know that it’s true for my mother. I could tell her about liking a boy or even smoking pot. But this will be pushing the edges of any parent’s understanding. It’s already pushing the edges of my own.
I take a deep breath. “A year ago, I was kidnapped.”
Her hand squeezes mine, and I see her take a deep breath. After a moment her hold relaxes. “The police can be here in a matter of minutes. They can do tests, take evidence—”
“It’s… harder than that,” I say, unable to meet her eyes. “There was a man in the cell with me. His name is Elijah. He helped me escape. I think… I think I may have fallen in love with him.”
Her blue eyes turn glossy with tears. “Oh, baby.”
“I know what you’re thinking, that it can’t be real love in a situation like that.”
“There are things I’ve never told you about my relationship with your father, about the way we met. Maybe I should tell you soon, but for right now I need to hear your story.”
“Well, he had enemies. They wanted to use me against him. And he was so determined…” My chest heaves, and for maybe the first time in the transatlantic flight I register that he’s really gone. I’m alone now. “So determined to protect me that I felt like maybe he loved me, too. That was just an illusion, though.”
“Are you sure about that?” she asks, her voice gentle.
“No,” I say with a watery laugh. “I’m not sure of much these days.”
“And London? She looks thin.”
“She’s sick, Mama.” The words come out as a whisper. “That’s what started this mess. She needed money to pay back debts, because she’s… she’s addicted to cocaine. I’ve been trying to help her myself, but it’s so much, it’s so scary, and I just—”