My fingers drop away then surge back up, flicking the switch and flooding the room with so much brightness that even my closed eyes water from the input.
The salty tears sting at my wounds, packing in a new level of discomfort to the already sore area.
When I can open them, the paper makes me smile. It’s a drawing. Perhaps the skill level is common to all children her age, and the page could have been dropped in this room for a year without me spying it, but I still assign creative rights to Sophia.
A stick man with a large round belly stands next to two circles crisscrossed with lines that might indicate they’re wheels. There’s a big marking on his stomach, the design familiar but impossible for my strained mind to pin down. Is it a flag? A logo?
Anxiety twists my gut as I think of one further option. A gang patch. The wheels not from a bike but a motorcycle.
Even though I haven’t had possession of it for a week, I reach for my phone, cursing at its absence.
Upstairs. Sergio’s office. There’s a computer which should be ample for my needs.
I scurry up the steep stairs and stand in the entrance, my mind whirling at the chaos. Sergio was never the tidiest soul on the planet, but this is far beyond his standard mess, possibly the result of Baxter’s men searching for intel on Sophia.
Whatever the reason, I kick my way through the papers scattered across the floor and bypass the password prompt to open a brand-new user screen, then go searching. Four pages deep, I find the matching symbol. The highway mob.
I don’t know how they fit or what interest they’d have in rattling Baxter but it’s unlikely a coincidence. Sophia’s memory might not have held onto the images past the terrible ordeal I put her through in the carpark outside, but it was top of mind when she drew this figure.
Perhaps even seated right in front of her.
I need to contact Baxter. Need to let him know. But I don’t have his number. Don’t have money or a mobile to get a ride to his home. My stomach churns at the thought he must think I abandoned him. The first time I’ve been outside the mansion walls, and I disappeared on a visit to the bathroom.
Or will he piece it together? Know that I was beaten, violated, dumped? Will he be able to find me? Was the tracker I didn’t know about so he could find and rescue me if something like this happened or was it another method to contain me?
Baxter’s probably already left the restaurant. Even if I could return there, if Andrej saw me first, I’d be dead. Andrej must be an important man in his circle, a powerful man, and I don’t even know the rules of this world.
There must be a solution, but I can’t think. Can’t run different scenarios when fear and pain occupy so much space inside my head.
With a shiver, I slide down the wall. Knees to my chest, head bowed, wishing I still had the courage I’d had back on that first night.
CHAPTERTWENTY-NINE
BAXTER
It starts as a pulse low in my stomach. Tightening nerves, raised awareness. The hairs along my forearms stand to attention like dutiful soldiers. My eyes sweep the restaurant then return to the door connecting to the large room outside.
Three minutes. Four.
So much time has passed since I last lived with a woman that I’m not sure how long she should take to go to the bathroom. That’s not long, is it? Certainly not enough time for my body to become hyperaware like this.
I scrunch the napkin in my hand, trying to pay attention to the man speaking beside me. Johnson runs a large team, an offshoot of Stefan’s silo. Trying to become his own man, gain his own share of the organisation.
He’s important now. Will become more important in the future. In a year or two, he might stand shoulder to shoulder with me. Equals. Until then, part of what he earns comes to Stefan, a smaller portion to me. The least he deserves is my concentration.
Instead, every part of my attention is focused on the door.
Ten minutes. Eleven.
“Just go check.”
The words startle me, and I turn, examining the man beside me.
“Whoever you’re worried about, just go check on them.” The smile that haunts the corners of his mouth shows more commiseration than understanding. There’s a light circle of flesh on Johnson’s ring finger. This business is hard on marriages when they’re made outside the flock.
“Excuse me.” I stand and move to the door, shaking a few hands on the way but wearing a scowl so I’m not invited into any deeper conversations. At the doorway, I scan the adjoining room, the dark dresses of a few women snagging my eye before I dismiss them.
She’s probably still in the ladies, that makes the most sense. I advance on the door, not wanting to venture inside. Isabelle will be touching up her makeup or adjusting her stockings or whatever women do when they disappear into the bathroom and make it their temporary home.
