“I don’t know if I should go,” I tell her.
Klara is throwing things into the suitcase, without her usual perfectionism.
“It’s not up to you,” she tells me flatly. “Mikolaj has decided. And besides, Nessa—it’s not safe for you here.”
Her voice is low, and her body is tense. I realize that whatever Klara might say, she’s frightened. She doesn’t know what’s going to happen, either.
“Is it safe for you?” I ask her.
“Of course it is,” Klara says, her dark eyes steady and firm. “I’m just the maid.”
“You’re not a maid,” I say. “You’re my friend.”
I throw my arms around her and hug her tight. Klara stiffens up for a moment, then relaxes, dropping the bodysuit she was holding so she can hug me back.
“Thank you for taking care of me,” I tell her.
“Thank you for not being a little shit,” she says.
“Most of the time,” I say, remembering all the meals I refused to eat.
“Yes,” she laughs. “Mostly.”
Klara smells nice, like soap and bleach and vanilla. Hugging her is comforting, because she’s so capable and always seems to know what to do.
“I’ll see you again soon,” I tell her.
“I hope so,” she says, without really sounding like she believes it.
I shower and brush my teeth, then put on a pair of clean leggings and a soft, slouchy sweatshirt. I don’t know where my original clothes got to, the jeans and hoodie I was wearing when Jonas snatched me. They disappeared.
Klara blow-dries my hair one last time, pulling it up in a high ponytail.
As she packs my toiletries in the suitcase, I stand at the window, looking down into the garden. I see two of Mikolaj’s men crossing the ground, walking rapidly with their heads down. I recognize one of them—he’s a bouncer at Jungle. The other I’ve never seen before.
I know Mikolaj has more soldiers, other than the ones that live at the house. He doesn’t usually let them come here. Klara said they used to, but nobody was supposed to see me. Or as few people as possible. I guess it doesn’t matter anymore now that I’m leaving.
“Come on,” Klara says. “No sense moping around.”
The house is unusually silent as I descend the curving staircase. The quiet unnerves me. Usually there’s some kind of noise—the clink of plates in the kitchen, or of pool balls in the billiards room. A TV playing somewhere, or somebody laughing.
Marcel is waiting for me by the front door. He’s got the car pulled up—the same Land Rover that brought me here. Or maybe they have a whole fleet. I don’t really know the nuts and bolts of this place, not really.
I thought Mikolaj would be waiting, too.
His absence hurts me. It’s a sharp pang that only seems to grow stronger as Marcel opens the door for me, as I realize he’s really not coming to say goodbye.
What is wrong with me? Why am I blinking back tears when I’m about to go home? I should be skipping over to the car.
Instead I march over like a condemned prisoner, while Marcel puts the suitcase in the trunk. When I look back at the massive old mansion, only Klara is standing in the doorway, arms crossed over the chest of her apron, face solemn.
I press my palm against the glass.
She lifts a hand in farewell.
Then Marcel is driving me away.
It’s a dark and gloomy day. The sky is as flat and gray as a chalkboard, the air biting cold. The wind blows the last of the dried leaves and bits of trash across the street. The season changed. It’s winter now.
I look over at Marcel, his handsome profile and his troubled expression.
“Klara likes you,” I tell him, in Polish.
He gives a little laugh.
“I know,” he says.
He’s silent for a minute, and I don’t think he’s going to talk to me any more than he usually does. Then he seems to change his mind. He actually looks at me, maybe for the first time. I see that his eyes are lighter than I thought—more of a honey color than a deep brown.
“Klara’s father was a drunk. Her uncles are shit,” he says. “Especially Jonas’s father. She only knows one kind of man. But it doesn’t matter. I’m just as stubborn as she is. Persistent, too.”
“Oh,” I say. “That’s good.”
“Yeah.” He smiles and looks back at the road. “I’m not worried.”
We’re getting closer and closer to the Gold Coast. I know these streets. I’ve driven them a hundred times.
I should be getting more excited with every mile. In just a few minutes, I’m going to walk through the doors of my house and see my family. They’re going to be so surprised they just might have a heart attack. In fact, I should probably have the guards at the gate call ahead to warn them.
Instead of my excitement building, my sense of unease is growing. I didn’t like the look Jonas gave me in the hallway. It was just another one of his stupid smirks, but there was something else behind it. A new brand of maliciousness.
“Why did those men come to the house?” I ask Marcel.
“What?” he says, taking one of the last turns before my street.
“I saw one of the bouncers from Jungle in the backyard. And another guy.”
“I dunno,” Marcel says blankly. “I didn’t hear anything about it.”
“Stop the car,” I say.
“What are you—”
“STOP THE CAR!”
Marcel slams on the brakes, pulling over to the side of the road, while a white minivan honks in irritation, and swerves around us.
He looks over at me, the engine still running.
“I’ve got to take you home,” he tells me. “Mikolaj’s orders.”
“Something’s wrong, Marcel. Jonas is going to do something, I know it.”
“He’s just a blowhard,” Marcel says dismissively. “Mikolaj is boss.”
“Please,” I beg him. “Please go back, just for a minute. Or call Miko, at least.”
Marcel looks at me, considering.
“I’ll call him,” he says at last.
He hits the number, holding the phone to his ear with an expression that plainly says he’s only humoring me.
The phone rings without answer.
After the sixth or seventh ring, Marcel’s smile fades and he pulls the car away from the curb.
“Are you going back to check?” I ask him.
“Yeah,” he says. “I’ll check.”
25
Miko
Watching the Land Rover leave the yard, carrying Nessa back to her house, is like watching the sun sink below the horizon. The light fades away, and all that’s left in its place is darkness and cold.
The house is silent. No music coming from Nessa’s little studio. No hint of her gentle laugh, or her questions to Klara.
Actually, there’s no noise at all. The men are silent, too. They’re angry with me.
From a strategic perspective, what I’m doing is insane. Handing Nessa over to the Griffins without any exchange, without even an agreement in place, is the epitome of foolishness.
I don’t care.