I added a little sprinkle of something to Isabelle’s first drink, the amber fluid easily hiding the stain of colour, and it sends her to sleep mid-story. Sophia had already nodded off, unable to keep her eyes open for more than the first two pages.
The book is in danger of sliding onto the floor, so I rescue it, returning it to the shelf before I take a seat back by the bed. They look so peaceful together. Sophia’s blonde curls tangling with Isabelle’s straight dark hair like a painting of yin and yang.
My daughter refused to get into bed without seeing her again, the stubborn crease between her brows growing deeper the more I denied her. It’s a bad precedent to let her walk all over me but given the circumstances I didn’t put my foot down as I usually would. After spending a day thinking she’d be sent home in pieces, it’s nice to have her here, safe and sound.
Speaking of people in pieces, since the nanny wasn’t involved, I’ll ship her body back to her family in Slovakia. Antonio is a different story. His remains are already burning. They should be ash by morning, mixed with bleach to destroy any lingering DNA, then dumped… I don’t know.
Somewhere fitting. A lesson.
Yuri clears his throat from the doorway, and I tell him, “Send the doctor back in and that’ll be all. Have Feliks cover for you in the morning.”
It’s already after one and the last thing I need is the guards who are loyal, being dopey through lack of sleep.
I pull Isabelle’s foot towards me, massaging the puffy flesh. Hard to believe that a swollen ankle is her only injury, given the state of the abductor she fought for my daughter.
My men cleaned his remains from the carpark. They’re still searching for Sergio.
Fuck, she’s pretty. Even without makeup, her lips have the blushing colour of a new season magnolia. I can imagine how they’d swell under an avalanche of kisses, deepening into red.
Not mine, of course.
Not until I know she is who she says she is.
Still, I’m glad the guards didn’t blow her brains out when she turned up at the gate, covered in blood, holding Sophia. My girl saved her. If she’d walked out of the car alone, she would have been dead before anyone bothered to ask why she was there.
Doctor Alexander pokes her head into the room. “You needed me again?”
“Yes. Could you grab samples and install a tracking device?”
The woman takes a few cautious steps closer. “And she’ll stay asleep?”
I nod, moving aside so she has better access. First, she takes a blood sample, then wipes a long cotton bud around the inside of her mouth. Next, she spritzes some oil onto Isabelle’s fingers, pressing them to a pad and checking on a small computer to ensure the images are recorded.
The doctor pauses when the implant gun is loaded. “She’ll feel sore for a day or two after the shot.”
I already know that. Can remember the sensation from when my own was implanted but I understand what she’s asking.
“Her shoulder,” I say, clearing aside Isabelle’s dark hair to give easier access. Given the force she used to slash her attackers throat a few hours earlier, the muscles will be sore, anyway. A perfect disguise unless or until I’m ready to tell her what I’ve done.
Once the doctor has finished and left the room, I slide my shoes off and place my jacket on the back of the chair, laying behind my daughter and pulling her close.
Sophia’s breath snuffles in and out, her thumb moving to her mouth, seeking comfort. I should pull it away, threats of buck teeth dance in my head, but I can’t bear to deny her. Instead, I leave it, stroking her hair and kissing the side of her head.
On the far side of Sophia, Isabelle stiffens, then relaxes. The sedative is more powerful than whatever monster stalks her nightmares.
The doctor assures me she’ll be fine. That whatever panic gripped her earlier won’t last.
They’ll both be fine.
Sophia has bruises but no signs of anything worse being forced upon her. There’s a mark where tape was applied to her mouth. Dark lines circling both wrists. Finger bruises on her upper arm that match to Isabelle’s story of the dead man trying to pull her away.
Nothing worse. Nothing deeper.
Much as I’d like to, I can’t stay. More information pours into the house with each passing second and it needs to be scrutinised, sorted, compiled into a logical train of what happened, when, and with whom.
These initial reports are the most important. Any mistake might send my resources spiralling in the wrong direction. A course correction will lose us precious time and we’re already behind the ball.
I take pity on Isabelle and lift her from the bed, carrying her to the room I’d already designated as hers. Judging from her resistance earlier, Sophia’s a lot more enamoured with her than she is with my daughter.
