I regret not bringing her any sunglasses even though the glare isn’t strong. I consider stopping, but I’m keen to get us to our destination. I have work to do.
La Zagaleta is a gated residential estate in the hills of Benahavís, above Marbella. It has 24-hour security and large houses, sequestered in wooded areas down winding private roads. It’s not really my scene, but it’ll do for as long as we need it. I’d prefer somewhere more isolated, quieter, with locally sourced staff we can trust. But that all takes time, while the house we’re renting was available at immediate notice.
Anonymity is aided with a bank account under the Spanish variation of my name, a legal loophole that requires no special paperwork, and Vicky raises an eyebrow as I’m greeted as Alejandro.
The house itself has beautiful gardens and a swimming pool, tiled floors within, and quality if basic furnishings. A pleasant woman welcomes us, introducing herself as Carmen, the housekeeper. In age and appearance, she reminds me of the cleaner who let me into DeLuca’s office, and I spend a few moments charming her in Spanish before switching to English. Carmen responds fluently, to Vicky’s surprise and delight.
English is common in this part of Spain, and she won’t be as ostracized as she thinks.
“I didn’t know if you would be hungry, señorita, but I made paella. Do you like seafood?”
“That sounds lovely, thank—gracias.”
Carmen gives her a warm smile, but when we eat, Vicky only picks at her plate.
“Your body needs food,” I say as gently as I can.
“I’m still nauseous.”
She looks pale, her skin clammy, but I smile and lether do what she wishes.
That night, when Vicky jolts awake, her skin is hot and she’s coughing. I coax her back to sleep with a glass of water and by stroking her hair, then slip out of bed and take advantage of the estate’s all-hours concierge.
The following morning, a doctor knocks on our door. Vicky wears a silk robe in bed and makes no protest as he examines her, taking her pulse and listening to her chest.
“It is only a respiratory infection,” he tells her in Spanish, then repeats it in English at my insistence. “It hasn’t reached your chest, but it may yet do so.” He hesitates, glances at her wrists, then addresses me. “Would you please step out for a moment, señor Reyes?”
“No, I will not—”
“It’s all right, Alex,” Vicky says softly. “I would like to talk to the doctor.”
I take a breath to calm myself, give her what I hope is an encouraging smile, walk out of the room and close the door. Then pace in the hallway outside.
What’s she telling him in there? I don’t know this doctor, save that he’s used at this estate and there’s nothing to connect me here. It’s been barely a day; even Fournier’s reach can’t be that long.
I tell myself I’m worrying over nothing, but it’s unconvincing.
The minutes pass, and I glance often at my watch, resisting the urge to punch the tasteful mosaics decorating the walls.
Is she still trying to leave me? Is that why she wants privacy?
A doctor would be bound to facilitate that, especially with marks on her like she has.
I thought she had accepted everything on the plane, but now I wonder. She’s been so withdrawn. Is it just a residue of her torture—as if any such thing could be called ‘just’—or is it more?
Damn Haynes. Damn Van Wyk and Fournier.
I need to get them out of our path, and I can’t do that while I’m worrying about Vicky.
The door opens eventually, and the doctor steps out. I force myself to unclench my fists.
“Nothing to worry about, señor,” he says in Spanish, before I can speak. “Yourprometidawished to explain some things to me, but tells me also that you are… protective.”
“Get to the point.”
“Bueno. I have given her antibiotic cream for the abrasions on her wrists and ankles. Her upper respiratory infection will either resolve in a few days or become a chest infection. If that happens, call me and I will prescribe antibiotics.” He pauses, then lifts his chin. “She assures me everything is perfectly consensual. It is none of my business, but if you will accept a critique, your games would be more enjoyable for you both if you invested more time in her care.”
I’m torn between laughing and punching him, settling instead for a dry, “Noted.”
