The A4 becomes the M4, and I spy the high-rise towers that dominate the Brentford landscape and signal that I’m near. I come off the motorway hitting the slip road at fifty miles per hour. I slow down, but fortunately, the lights at the junction are green, and I cruise through them thankful that I’d brought her home earlier in the week and know where she lives.

Six minutes later I pull up in front of her house, leap out of the car, and dash up the short pathway. There are still clumps of snow on the grass and the sad remains of a snowman. The doorbell trills somewhere inside, but there’s no response. The house is empty.

Fuck.

Where is she?

Apprehension overwhelms me. Where could she be?

Of course! She’ll be coming here by train.

I’d seen the sign for the station as I’d turned in to Church Walk. I sprint back down the path and turn right on to the main road. The station is less than two hundred meters on my left.

Thank God it’s so close.

As I dash down the station stairs, I see a train waiting on the far platform, but it’s heading into London. I stop and focus my attention. There are only two platforms, and the one I’m on is for trains traveling out of London. All I have to do is wait. An electronic display hanging overhead announces that the next train arrives at 15:07. I check my watch; it’s 15:03 now.

I lean against one of the white iron pillars that support the station roof and wait. There are a few other commuters waiting for the train, too. Most of them, like me, are seeking shelter from the elements. I watch as the frigid wind blows a discarded crisp packet in gusts along the station platform and across the train tracks. But it doesn’t hold my attention for long. Every few seconds I glance at the empty track, praying for the London train to materialize.

Come on. Come on. I will it to arrive.

Finally the train appears around the bend, and it slowly—oh, so fucking slowly—pulls in to the station and stops. I stand up straight, my stomach churning with anxiety as the doors open and a few people alight from the train.

Twelve of them.

But not Alessia.

Fucking hell.

As the train leaves the station, I check the electronic sign again. The next train is due in fifteen minutes.

That’s not too long.

It’s a fucking age!

Hell.

I’m glad that even in my haste to leave the flat, I remembered my coat. It’s bloody cold. I cup and blow on my hands, stamp my feet, and pull up my coat collar in an effort to keep warm. Thrusting my hands into the pockets, I pace up and down the platform while I wait.

My phone buzzes, and for some insane reason I think it might be Alessia, but of course she doesn’t have my number. It’s Caroline. Whatever she wants can wait. I ignore the call.

After an intolerable fifteen minutes, the 15:22 from London Waterloo comes into view around the bend. It slows as it approaches the station, and after an agonizing minute it stops.

Time suspends.

The doors open, and Alessia is first off the train.

Oh, thank fuck.

Relief nearly brings me to my knees, but just the sight of her calms me down.

* * *

When Alessia sees him, she stops short in complete astonishment. The other disembarking passengers stream past them as she and Maxim stare at each other, drinking each other in. The doors close with a hiss of compressed air, and the train gradually pulls out of the station, leaving them on their own.

“Hello,” he says, breaking the silence between them as he approaches her. “You left without saying good-bye.”

Her face falls, and her eyes fill with tears that spill down her cheeks.

* * *

Her anguish rips through me.

“Oh, baby,” I whisper, and open my arms. She puts her face in her hands and begins to weep. Feeling at a loss, I fold her into my embrace and hold her. “I’ve got you. I’ve got you,” I whisper against her green woolly hat. She sniffles, and I lift her chin and plant a tender kiss on her forehead. “I mean it. I’ve got you.”

Alessia’s eyes widen, and she pulls away. “Magda?” she whispers, alarmed.

“Let’s go.” I take her hand, and together we hurry up the metal staircase and out onto the road. Her hand is cold in mine, and I want nothing more than to whisk her away to somewhere safe. But first of all I have to know what’s going on. What trouble she’s in. I only hope that she’ll open up and tell me.

We walk quickly but in silence across the road and back to 43 Church Walk. At the front door, Alessia fishes out a key from her pocket, unlocks the door, and we both step inside.

The front hallway is tiny and made more crowded by the two packing boxes that stand in the corner. Alessia removes her hat and anorak, and I take them from her and hang them on one of the pegs on the wall.

“Magda,” she calls up the stairs while I shed my coat and hang it beside hers, but there’s no answer. The house is empty. I follow her into the tiny kitchen.

Jesus, the place is a shoebox!

From the threshold of the dated but tidy 1980s kitchen, I watch Alessia fill the kettle. She’s in her tight jeans and the green sweater that she wore the other day.

“Coffee?” she asks.

“Please.”

“Would you like milk and sugar?”

I shake my head. “No, thank you.” I loathe instant coffee and can only tolerate it black, but now isn’t the right time to tell her.

“Sit,” she says, and points to the little white table. I do as I’m told and wait, watching her while she prepares our drinks. I am not going to rush her.

She makes tea for herself—strong, with sugar and milk—and eventually hands me a mug inscribed BRENTFORD FC that bears the team logo. Taking the seat opposite me, she gazes down at the contents of her mug, which is emblazoned with the Arsenal shield, and an uncomfortable silence settles between us.

Finally I can bear it no longer. “Are you planning to tell me what’s going on? Or do I have to guess?”

She doesn’t respond, but her teeth worry her upper lip. Under any normal circumstance, this would drive me crazy, but seeing her this distraught is sobering.

“Look at me.”

At last her big brown eyes meet mine.

“Tell me. I want to help.”

Her eyes widen with what I assume is fear, and she shakes her head.

I sigh. “Okay. Let’s play twenty questions.”

She looks puzzled.

“You answer each question yes or no.”

Her frown deepens, and she clutches the little gold cross that hangs at her neck.

“Are you a failed asylum seeker?”

Alessia gazes at me, then gives me the briefest shake of her head.

“Okay. Are you here legally?”

She blanches, and I have my answer. “Not legally, then?”

After a beat she shakes her head again.

“Have you lost the power of speech?” I hope she notices the trace of humor in my voice.

Her face brightens, and she half smiles. “No,” she says, and her cheeks color a little.

“That’s better.”

She takes a sip of her tea.

“Talk to me. Please.”

“You will tell the police?” she asks.

“No. Of course not. Is that what you’re worried about?”

She nods.

“Alessia, I won’t. You have my word.”

Placing her elbows on the table, she clasps her hands together and rests her chin on them. A range of conflicting emotions crosses her face as the silence expands and fills the room. I hold my tongue, silently begging her to talk. At last her dark eyes meet mine. They’re full of determination. She sits up straight and places her hands in her lap. “The man who came to your apartment, his name is Dante.” Her voice is a pained whisper. “He brought me and some other girls from Albania to England.” She looks down at her mug of tea.

A shiver runs up my spine to my scalp, and I have a horrible sinking feeling in my stomach. Somehow I think I know what she’s about to say.

“We thought we were coming here to work. For a better life. Life in Kuk?s is hard for some women. The men who brought us here…We were betrayed—” Her soft voice halts over the word, and I close my eyes as revulsion and bile rise in my throat. It’s as bad as it could possibly be.

“Human trafficking?” I whisper, and I watch her reaction.

She nods once, her eyes tightly closed. “For sex.” Her words are barely audible, but in them I hear her shame and her horror.

Fury like nothing I’ve felt before ignites inside me. I clench my fists trying to control my anger.

Alessia is pale.

And everything about her falls into place.

Her reticence.

Her fear.

Of me.

Of men.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

“How did you escape?” I ask, trying to keep my voice even.

We’re both startled by the rattle of a key in the front door. Alarmed, Alessia leaps to her feet, and I jump up, knocking my chair to the floor.

“Stay here,” I growl, pulling open the kitchen door.

A blond woman in her forties stands in the hallway. She gasps in alarm when she sees me.

“Magda!” Alessia cries. Dodging around me, she runs to embrace Magda.

“Alessia!” Magda exclaims, and hugs her. “You’re here. I thought…I thought…I’m sorry. I’m sorry,” Magda babbles, anguish in her voice, as she begins to cry. “They were here again. Those men.”

Alessia takes Magda by the shoulders. “Tell me. Tell me what happened.”

“Who is this?” Magda turns her tearstained face to me with suspicion.

“This is…Mister Maxim. It is his apartment that I clean.”

“Did they come to his apartment?”