I stop and look down at the marble floor below.
When Ambrose notices I've paused, he stops, too, following my gaze. "Do you remember?"
I wrap my arms around myself, cold. "Remember?"
"You fell down these stairs when you were barely two."
"I did?"
"It was awful," he murmurs. "No broken bones, thank god, but you split your lip. There was so much blood. I had to hold you for hours before you calmed down."
At his words, I run the tip of my tongue over the raised scar on the inside of my lower lip. It's always been there, but I couldn't remember how I got it.
My throat burns, and I clear it to get control of myself.
"No," I lie, shrugging. "I can't remember."
"That's probably for the best," he replies, continuing up the stairs and down a wide hallway to the right.
"This was your mother's space," he explains. "We had our shared bedroom, of course, but she demanded her own as well. Down near the end is her private sitting room, her bedroom, dressing rooms, and a terrace overlooking the sea. But this—" He wraps his hand around the brass handle of the first door. "This was your room."
The door sweeps open, and I'm not sure what I expected, maybe a crib or one of those short little toddler beds, but there's none of that here.
"I've had it updated, of course."
But there are still echoes of what this room was not long ago. The delicate floral wallpaper in pretty blush hues. The short built-in dressers along the left wall. The soft ivory velvet curtains. The small rocking chair in the corner with a smiling doll atop it.
It's clear he had a new bed and nightstand moved in—fit for an adult—but it's still like a child's room.
I don't recognize it, and I don't realize I'm chewing my lip until he speaks. "Until morning, then?"
"Right. See you in the morning."
As he passes me, he surprises me by leaning down to lay a soft kiss on my cheek. I stiffen and hope he doesn't notice as he walks out the door.
I kill time by exploring the room in his absence, covertly checking for any sign of cameras or listening devices like Atticus taught me, but even though I don't find any, it doesn't mean there are none.
Despite everything, I still believe it's possible that Ambrose is genuinely glad to have found me. Glad to have me here.
Once I'm safely ensconced in the adjoining bathroom, I do a more thorough search of my bra and the inside of the dress, but the device is definitely gone. I can only hope it fell out somewhere Ambrose's team won't find it.
I can't worry about that right now, though. Right now, the issue is that the guys have no fucking idea where I am and are probably freaking out.
Fifteen minutes later, there's a soft knock at the door, and I sound a little too eager when I call for them to enter.
It's not the driver from earlier, but a different man. He wears a tailored suit and has my Louis Vuitton trunk with my backpack sitting atop it in his hand.
"May I enter, miss?"
His Spanish accent is heavy, but I'm glad he can speak English, since even though the little Duolingo owl says I'm at a level twelve, I know I'm nowhere near conversational.
"Yes, please, come in."
He's not even finished wheeling my things to the closet before I'm up and over to him. "Ambrose said you can connect my phone?"
I push it toward him, and he takes it with only mild surprise at my impatience.
"Yes, miss. One moment."
