I press my ear to the door, my breathing slow and controlled as I listen for signs of life. I hear nothing but my own heartbeat. The bastard probably soundproofed it. I slip my backpackoff and take out the small silent drill and remove the lock in less than a minute. Pushing open the door, I reveal a study. A neat and tidy desk. A desktop computer. Neatly arranged bookshelves. Why the fuck does he lock his study? Does he not trust his staff? Unless...
I step into the room, my instincts telling me he’s hiding more in here than professional secrets. There’s a rug on the floor, one of those artisan ones you might see in a café in Marrakech. Hours of quiet craftsmanship woven into the rich wool, dyed in shades of purple and mauve. Very out of place in this otherwise bland office. I kick the edge up and am unsurprised to uncover a wooden hatch, a trapdoor of sorts. In order to pull the rug all the way back, I’m forced to push the desk out of the way, and as I do I uncover the entire door. It’s also fitted with a lock, a thick dead bolt ordinarily hidden from view beneath the rug and desk. I slide it open and it glides easily, like new metal often does. It takes two hands to pull open the heavy hatch, which is lined with some kind of metal too—something to make it soundproof, no doubt. I shine my flashlight into the space.
It’s a small concrete room, maybe six by six feet. She’s inside, her knees pulled up to her chest, wearing a dirty shirt with bare legs. An empty plastic cup lies on its side beside her.
She lifts her head, eyes wide and filled with fear. She’s young. Maybe eighteen. I think of Imogen, and for some reason I pull my mask down a little, resting it beneath my jaw and revealing my mouth. “Don’t scream, okay. I’m here to help you.”
Her lower lip wobbles. “He said no one would come.”
“He lied. What’s your name, sweetheart?”
“Esme.” Her voice cracks, and I expect she hasn’t been asked her name for a long time.
I lie on the floor, sticking my arms through the hatch and holding out a hand to her. “You can trust me, Esme. You and I are going to get out of here, okay?”
Her eyes still wide with fear, she nods. I expect she has noidea whether she’s about to trade one monster for another, but I also expect there can’t be much worse than spending your life locked in a tiny windowless room. I wonder how many hours a day he lets his little pet out to play for, and whether she prefers being locked in here than being with him.
Gingerly, she pushes herself up into a standing position and raises her arms. I grab onto her forearms, and lift her up, pushing up onto my knees. There’s no leverage for her to use and I’m conscious of hurting her stick-thin arms. “Can you wrap your arms around my neck, Esme?”
She does so, one arm and then the other. I pull her to safety, until she’s standing with her tiny body pressed against me, arms still around my neck. She blinks up at me. I gently unwind her from me and she takes a step back, her eyes darting around the room. She’s barefoot, but that won’t matter. My car is nearby.
“We need to get out of here, Esme.”
Her eyes are still scanning the room as she stays rooted to the spot. Is she waiting for him to come for her? Maybe she thinks this is some kind of test.
I grab the edge of the hatch, ready to close it.
“Wait,” she whispers.
Then she sees something, something high on a shelf. She reaches and grabs it. It’s an electric shock collar, the kind assholes use on dogs to stop them from barking. She spits on it and then throws it back through the open hatch. I close it and return the rug and desk to their previous position, wishing I could see his face when he finds the lock on his door removed and watch him scrabbling to open the hatch and find his little pet is gone.
I also can’t help wondering who might end up in that hellhole instead of her, and make a silent vow to ensure that nobody will. It would be a fitting death for him to be locked down there, with no food or water—let him fucking starve to death.
As soon as I’m done, I head for the study door and that’s when I see the piece of paper, a page torn from a notepad and a blackpen beside it. They’re just sitting on top of a sideboard—a note hastily scribbled before he left the room. Perhaps his kids were calling for him? Or his housekeeper? And he was keen to get out of the room before they got inside. I can picture him, cell phone pressed to his ear as he was given the name. I see him frantically searching for something to write it on—too important a detail to risk only committing to memory.
The name sends a shiver of excitement down my spine.
Fraser Lane—a ghost from my past.
Why is his name scribbled here on a piece of paper in Adrian Farnham’s office? That can’t be a coincidence.
Esme snaps me from my memories, curling her cold fingers around mine. I turn to face her and am about to tell her to let go, but she looks so fucking helpless and vulnerable that I allow it. We have to leave, and fast. The last thing I need is for this to go the way of Appalachia. I pull Esme behind me, along the hallway and out of the back door, into the gardens. She takes a deep breath of air, her head tilted up to the night sky.
“We’re not out of here yet, Esme. We have to keep moving.”
She nods once and then follows me. Maybe it’s being out here free from her prison, but the change in her is profound. She glances around us, her eyes scanning for danger and her entire body language telling me she’s on high-alert. Esme might be young and vulnerable but she’s far from naive, and I fucking hate that she’s experienced so much hurt already in her young life. The Brotherhood steals many things, but women like Esme and Imogen prove that they can’t take everything.
Esme looks fidgety and nervous when we get to my SUV, which is to be expected, given what she’s endured these past few weeks. “You don’t have to get in this car. I can give you some money and you can run. Or I can take yousomewhere safe and have someone help you get back on your feet.”
She stares at me and then at her bare feet. “Who are you?”
“A friend.”
She tilts her head to the side. “I think I trust you.”
“Then get in the car and let’s go.”
She climbs in and I proceed to drive out of town to the spot where I’ve agreed to meet Edgar. I talk to her along the way, reassuring her that there’s a plan. I tell her we’re going to meet my friend, who’s going to give her the name of a place where she can go. A place where they help women recover from traumatic experiences. Leaving Leah alone the other week really played on my mind, and Edgar contacted the CEO of the charity in Chicago we use. She’s going to have some of her volunteers on hand at the safe houses from now on. Keres Sideris is committed to this cause for reasons of her own, and she would have done this anyway. But her charity just got a hefty donation from their anonymous, reclusive billionaire patron.
