* * *
And Iamhungry. Not eating was part of my futile protest. But over the last few days, I’ve been calculating. Plotting. And tonight, with Malcom possibly returning home, is my best shot at escape. I need my strength up if I’m going to make it.
Still, I eat slowly, showcasing my hesitation. Jen and Callie notice, discreetly refilling my plate as I push through one serving and then another. Callie, clever woman that she is, makes small talk as she moves about the vaulted dining room. Dusky fog presses close to the windows, and the fire in the hearth dances, casting arcs of shadow across the stone walls.
“I hate to pry, Miss,” Callie says, pouring me a small glass of sherry. “Only—I’ve heard you knew Mr. Walker. Before…”
I reluctantly sip the wine, waiting a purposeful beat before I reply. “Yes. He was different then.”
“A great deal has happened, you know,” volunteers Jen, who bows her head when Callie shoots her a meaningful look.
To my chagrin, this piques my interest. “Really?”
“Oh, yes, Miss,” says Callie as she clears away my used dishes. “Some tragedy struck him.”
“What tragedy?”
They share a look.
“Well, I’ll find out one way or another, won’t I? I can’t exactly leave.” I gesture coldly to the window, playing the part of stubborn but resigned captive. “Please. Tell me. Maybe it will better help me…understand him.”
“Mr. Walker had a dear friend. Samuel. They were inseparable.” Callie wraps her arms around the lid of a serving dish, gazing forlornly at her feet. “Five years ago, he was brutally killed in a shootout.”
I lay down my fork. Despite my anger, a pang of sadness rings through my heart. “I’m sorry to hear that. Was he—Samuel—also in Malcom’s line of work?”
“Regrettably,” Callie says, to my surprise. She smiles when she sees my expression. “Well, we don’t support Mr. Walker’s occupation, Miss. Only, it’s all the man has ever known. He was brought up in the Scottish mafia, you know. His father was the mafia boss’s best and oldest friend.”
Jen lowers her head, her face full of grief.
“What is it?” I press.
Callie sighs. “In the same shooting that killed Samuel, Mr. Walker’s father also died.”
My breath catches. “Oh.” It’s a horrible thing. Malcom is a killer, a kidnapper, a monster—but no one deserves to have the people they love stripped from them. “That’s a tragedy.”
“It changed him,” Callie said. “Jen and I have tended to Mr. Walker since he bought this house, about ten years ago. He’s of course always had a penchant for violence—in his work, I mean. But in those days, the work was separate. He was kind and upstanding, and very generous. He looked after us. And after his father and Samuel died…”
“He became very cold and distant.”
The voice startles the three of us. I look back and find Pete in the doorway. Malcom’s right-hand man. His driver, his security, his jack of all trades. He’s a short and stocky man in his sixties, with salt and pepper hair and sad, kind eyes. They’re pale as water, and look like they’ve seen too much.
“Mr. Tavers,” says Callie as she and Jen quickly rush to attend their duties. They exit with my dishes, leaving me alone with Malcom’s man.
“Cold and distant,” I say, prodding. Grudgingly curious. “Yes, that seems about right.”
“I can’t imagine what you think of him,” says Pete, smiling ruefully. “But I assure you, beneath his steely exterior, there is still a good man. A man I think you once knew and loved.”
I look away, stung. “Once.”
“He will not force you to do anything.”
“He stole me from my life and will use me to bear him a child,” I shoot back, real anger, real fear, creeping into my voice. “The good man inside of Malcom Walker is dead.”
“Not yet.”
I lift my eyes and find Pete watching me. It feels like there’s something more he wants to say—but I’ve heard enough. And the sympathy I feel for Malcom…it’s faulty. Of course I feel for him. I loved him, once. A lifetime ago. But it’s not enough.
I have to hate him. Because I have to escape this horrid place, and I have no hope of doing that if my heart or my humanity start to soften.
