Alessia flies down the fire escape, her heart racing as adrenaline and fear fuel her body. Once she reaches the bottom, she’s in the side alley. She should be safe here. The gate to the street at the rear of the building is locked from the inside. But to be sure, she ducks between two of the dumpsters, where the residents of Mister Maxim’s block dispose of their trash. She leans against the brick wall and drags air into her lungs, trying to catch her breath.

How have they found her? How?

She had recognized Dante’s voice immediately, and all her suppressed memories had surfaced in a terrifying rush.

The dark.

The smell.

The fear.

The cold.

The smell. Ugh. The smell.

Tears well in her eyes, and she tries to blink them away. She has led them to him! She knows how ruthless they are and what they are capable of doing. She lets out a loud sob and puts her fist in her mouth as she cowers on the cold ground.

He could be hurt.

No.

She has to check. She can’t flee if he’s hurt.

Think, Alessia. Think.

The only person who knows she is here is Magda.

Magda!

No. Did they find Magda and Michal?

What have they done to them?

Magda.

Michal.

Mister…Maxim.

Her breath comes in short, sharp bursts as panic closes her throat. She thinks she’s going to faint, but suddenly her stomach roils, bile rises in her throat, and before she knows it, she’s doubled over and vomiting her breakfast onto the ground. As she retches and retches, she splays her hands on the brick wall until there’s nothing left in her stomach. The physical effort of throwing up leaves her wrung out but a little calmer. Wiping her mouth on the back of her hand, she stands, feeling dizzy, and peeks into the alley to see if anyone has heard her. She’s still alone.

Thank God.

Think, Alessia, think.

The first thing she has to do is check that the Mister is okay. Taking a deep breath, she leaves her refuge between the dumpsters and makes her way back up the fire escape. She moves cautiously as a sense of self-preservation kicks in. She needs to know the coast is clear, but she cannot be seen by them. It’s six stories high, so by the time she reaches the fifth story, she’s winded. She inches her way up the next staircase and peeps through the metal railings into the penthouse apartment. The laundry door is closed, but she can see into the living room. There’s no sign of life at first, but then, all of a sudden, the Mister barges into the living room, and she can tell he’s fetching something from his desk. He’s there for a moment before he bolts back out of the room.

Her body slumps against the metal balustrade. He’s safe.

Thank God.

With her curiosity appeased and her conscience reassured, she staggers back down the fire escape, knowing she has to check that Magda and Michal are okay.

At ground level in the alley once more, she changes into her boots and makes her way to the gate at the rear entrance of the apartment block. It opens onto the backstreet, not onto Chelsea Embankment. She pauses for a moment. Perhaps Dante and Ylli will be there waiting for her? They will be out front, surely? With her heart beating a frantic tempo, she opens the gate and peers into the street. The only sign of life is a dark green sports car speeding to the end of the road; there’s no sign of Dante and his sidekick, Ylli. Taking her woolly hat out of her bag, she tugs it on, tucks her hair inside, and sets off for the bus stop.

She walks briskly along the street, fighting the urge to run, knowing that might attract unwanted attention. She keeps her head down and her hands in her pockets, and with each step she prays to her grandmother’s God to keep Magda and Michal safe. She says it over and over again, alternating between her native tongue and English.

Ruaji, Zot.

Ruaji, Zot.

God keep them safe.

* * *

I’ve stood paralyzed in the hallway for what seems like an age. I’m filled with dread, and my blood is thundering in my ears.

Where the fuck is she?

What the hell is she mixed up in?

What do I do?

How can she face those guys on her own?

Fuck it. I have to find her.

Where will she go?

Home.

Brentford.

Yes.

I dash down the hall to the drawing room and snatch the car keys from my desk, then run to the front door, stopping only to grab my coat.

I feel sick, my stomach churning.

There is no way those guys were from “immigration.”

When I reach the garage, I press the electronic key, expecting the Discovery to open, but instead the Jag beeps to life.

Shit. In my haste I’ve picked up the wrong key.

Fuck it.

I don’t have time to go back upstairs for the correct key. I clamber into the F-Type Jag and press the ignition. The engine roars to life, and I ease the car forward out of its parking space. The garage doors rise gradually, and I exit to the left onto the street and race to the end of the road, turning left again toward Chelsea Embankment. But that’s as far as I get. Traffic is slow because it’s Friday afternoon and the beginning of rush hour. The crowded roads exacerbate my anxiety and do nothing for my temper. I run through my interaction with the thugs repeatedly, looking for any clues as to what might have happened to Alessia. They sounded Eastern European. They looked rough. Alessia bolted—so she either knows them or believes they’re from the “immigration” department, which means she must be in the UK illegally. This doesn’t surprise me. She’s brought every conversation we’ve had about what she’s doing in London to an abrupt end.

Oh, Alessia. What are you up to?

And where the hell are you?

I hope that she’s gone back to Brentford, because that’s where I’m headed.

* * *

Alessia sits on the train nervously fingering the small gold cross that hangs around her neck. It was her grandmother’s, and it’s the only possession she has that belonged to her dear nana. She treasures it. In times of stress, it brings her comfort. Though her mother and father are not religious, her grandmother was….She fiddles with it now and keeps repeating her mantra.

Please keep them safe.

Please keep them safe.

Her anxiety is overwhelming. They found her. How? How do they know about Magda? She needs to know that Magda and Michal are okay. Normally she likes traveling by train, but today it’s too slow. As the train reaches Putney, Alessia knows that it will be another twenty minutes before it reaches Brentford.

Please hurry.

Her thoughts turn to Mister Maxim. At least he is safe, for now.

Her heart stutters.

Maxim.

He kissed me.

Twice.

Twice!

He said lovely words. About her.

You’re beautiful.

You’re stunning.

And he kissed her!

That’s how I feel.

If circumstances were different, she would be ecstatic. She touches her fingers to her lips. It was a bittersweet moment. Her dreams were finally realized, only to be shattered by Dante—again.

There’s no way she can be involved with the Mister. No. Maxim. His name is Maxim.

She has brought such terrible danger to his home. She has to protect him.

Zot! Her job.

She will be out of a job. Nobody wants trouble coming to their front door and criminals like Dante threatening them.

What will she do?

She needs to be careful when she returns to Magda’s. She cannot let Dante find her there.

She cannot.

She must protect herself, too.

Fear grips her throat, and she shudders. She hugs herself, trying to contain her distress. All her vague hopes and dreams are lost. And in a rare moment of self-pity, she rocks to and fro, trying to find some comfort and alleviate her fear.

Why does the train have to take so long?

It pulls in to Barnes station, and the doors open.

“Please. Please hurry,” Alessia whispers, and her fingers find her gold cross once more.

* * *

I speed down the A4, my mind hopping from Alessia to those men and then to Kit as I dodge through the traffic.

Kit? What would you do?

He would have known. He always knew.

I remember our Christmas holiday. Kit had been in such good form. Maryanne and I had joined him and Caroline at a jazz festival in Havana. A couple days later, we’d all flown down to St. Vincent and taken a boat to Bequia to spend Christmas together in a private villa. Maryanne had gone on to Whistler to ski and to spend New Year’s Eve with friends, and Caroline, Kit, and I had returned to the UK for Hogmanay.

It had been an amazing week.

And the day after New Year’s Day, Kit died.

Or killed himself.

There. I thought it.

My unspoken suspicion.

Damn it, Kit. You fucker.