Her Name Is Knight(Nena Knight #1)(42)

Nena returned her attention to him, studying him with a hint of a smile. There was a time when smiling had come so easy to her, until there had no longer been reason to.

“I am the best,” she answered. When she caught Georgia’s wild-terror-filled expression, Nena pivoted. “We’re a family business. My parents deal with trade and commercial real estate. My sister and I oversee our American operations.”

“You’re from the UK? If I’m placing your accent correctly? And a little something else.”

A quick nod. “Born in Ghana and grew up in the UK. Have you ever visited either?”

He shook his head.

“Dad and my mom backpacked through Europe in college,” Georgia informed her.

He nodded, sipping from his glass. “It was a great experience. I hope to return one day.”

“Maybe one day, you might.” Nena looked at him, her head angled.

“Maybe,” he said modestly.

Not for the first time, she found herself enjoying the way Cortland—Cort—looked at her, like she was desirable, more than a commodity or someone’s pet or a killer.

She’d never seen herself with a man in any romantic capacity. Usually shied away from their attention. But with Cort, she didn’t mind so much. Curious.

She asked for the restroom.

“Down the hall, to the left,” Cort replied. “Want me to show you?”

She didn’t. She demurred and excused herself, walking down the hall as if she were on tour in a museum. She studied the photos of Cort and Georgia, always happy, laughing, in various places and at various ages in Georgia’s life. She saw the photo of Georgia’s mom sitting on a white bench in a park, floppy hat and book in hand—a beautiful honey-toned woman with a smile like Georgia’s staring straight into Nena’s soul as if to say, Protect them. They’re yours now.

Nena had nearly blown up this family’s world, leaving Georgia with nothing. A pang not dissimilar to guilt nicked at her, and she pried herself away from the photo. The door to Cort’s room was open. It was immaculate, not a paper or dirty sock in sight. The bed was made. Impressive.

Nena quickly moved down the hall, passing Georgia’s door—slightly ajar—and then another room. Looked to be both a guest room and office? She checked the hall in case either had come looking for her, but Georgia and Cort were in a highly energetic conversation. She went in, going for the desk by the bay window. She gave it a cursory look. Not much and hard to see in the dark with only the light from the hall to guide her. She couldn’t risk turning on any lights here. But she spied something on the floor next to the desk chair. Cort’s attaché, maybe? She went to it, finding it open with a manila folder peeking out. She looked at the door again while synchronously pulling the file out. She took out her cell, turned the flashlight on, directing it to the pages. Quickly she rifled through. Nothing she knew and nothing that jumped out at her. The last page was stamped EVIDENCE. It was a photocopy of a business card reading The Lotus Flower.

Didn’t stand out to her. Good. It was also time to get back.

When everything was put back where she’d found it, Nena went to the bathroom as she’d asked, returned to dinner, and enjoyed the conversation between a daughter and her father, hoping she could do as Georgia’s mother seemed to ask from the photo. Protect them.





32


BEFORE


The sharp clicks of the unlocking door alert me Monsieur has returned. I am tense, not knowing how I shall receive him. Thoughts of what kind of torture or psychological terror he will dole out nearly loosen my bowels. I hate the way I cower, the way I am so weak at the sight of him.

My dungeon opens, revealing him in a bathrobe and house shoes. His hair stands on end, a funny picture I am too scared to find amusing. He holds a pitcher of liquid in one hand and a crate beneath his other arm of what I hope is hot food. He looks satiated. Either his business was successful or he has had a visitor. Whatever it is, he will soon tell me, as he always does.

He sniffs. “Jesus, Souris, you smell horrible.”

My head drops. I try my best to keep as clean as possible. During his stretches of absence, I must choose between cleanliness and survival. Therefore, the container of water he leaves is for consumption. There is also a bucket for my waste that cannot be emptied until he lets me out of my little room. So yes, there is a smell. I am now accustomed to the debasement Monsieur subjects me to. Me, the daughter of a chieftain, a princess. It is almost laughable.

He places the crate of supplies on the floor, uses his foot to push it into the room, and beckons me to come out. He holds a bar of soap and a rough towel. I take them quickly in case he changes his mind, but again he is in decent spirits, so he lets me be. I quickly pass him to enter the small bathroom, noticing the door atop the stairs is ajar. I eye it longingly.

“Eh, Souris, you forget something, oui?”

The bucket. I cannot forget. Anything can ignite his wrath.

“Apologies,” I murmur, rushing to get my bucket of shit and piss I will empty into the toilet. He goes to his workbench, where the surveillance monitors are up and running.

I rinse the bucket and use my bar of soap and water to make suds, then let it soak while I bathe. The bathroom has no door. And while he says he would never lower himself by being with me, I do catch him watching me on occasion. If that is as low as he will go, I can live with it.