Page 82 of Queen of Nothing

The breath ribbons out of me and, slowly, I reach for the phone. Finger pointed, I press the little camera button on the screen.

I turn off the video, then press the microphone button.

On their side, the screen should go dark.

Serena can’t see or hear me.

Mr Younge can’t see or hear me.

Still, my breath is pinned to my throat as though if I breathe too loud, it will give me away.

The same tension has Serena rooted to the spot. Hands fisted at her sides, she is utterly still.

Mr Younge considers her in the silence that thickens the air between them. Then his sharp gaze swerves around the squared room.

And I know he’s looking for me.

My hand tightens on the steering wheel. The leather creaks in my grip, my knuckles turning white.

Mr Younge takes two steps in. His brogues thud softly on the runner rug. Then he steps aside, clearing the path to the door.

Stare locked onto Serena, he backs into the spine of the couch.

This time, I do hear it.

Steps coming up the corridor.

Through the phone call, it’s a distant sound that starts faint but grows into creaking floorboards.

Serena is utterly unmoving. Like all the years we’ve managed to run and escape and evade are flashing in her eyes—and it all comes crashing down around her.

There is no escape.

Not this time.

I don’t think she’s even breathed since Mr Younge kicked in the door.

I can’t see her face. I can’t see the terror on it, if she’s washed out and pale or green with sick, if she weeps or stands strong.

The final groan of the floorboard comes before a tall, suited man moves into the doorway.

My heart drops to my worming gut.

My hands slip off the steering wheel and I sink into the driver’s seat.

Father comes through the doorway.

He only looks at Serena for a second before he’s stepping into the loft. He moves for the barred window, the one without a fire escape, that looks down into the lane.

Father scans the apartment.

With his back to the corner, he glances out the window, then looks around the loft.

It’s only a video call, so I can’t make out the details of his face, no matter how much I try, how sharply I focus.

I lean forward, closer to the screen.

Father is wearing a suit, but I can’t make out what kind, if the material is cashmere or Vicuña, if the cut is Savile Row or Italian.