Her Name Is Knight(Nena Knight #1)(62)

“Perhaps you remember me from N’nkakuwe.”

She watched his eyes grow round and his mouth open. Close. Open. Close again. He wheezed. She studied him, wanting to see every last second of his life. He coughed, blood spurting from his lips, running down his throat, and then dripping fast onto the floor.

His hands dropped from her, swinging like heavy pendulums until they finally stilled. When he was done, she got to work on the rest of her plan.

She walked the halls, entered all the rooms, the outer ones for legal massages and the inner chambers for illegal acts. She checked the explosive charges she’d placed in each one. When she set them off, this place would be leveled and Kwabena with it. But first . . .

She returned to the room with a small red condiment bottle of accelerant and matches. First she wanted to watch Kwabena burn.

When it was done, when he’d gone up in a quiet and satisfying whoosh, she walked away from the building, pressing a button on her burner cell phone to remotely detonate the charges.

Two down.

One to go.





46


BEFORE


If anyone had said I would be riding in another fancy black sedan before being whisked away to England in a private plane, I would never have believed them. Of all the things I envisioned for the future, this was not it. I believed I would die in Paris, frozen on the street, and that no one would realize it until I thawed in the summer and the smell of rot became too pungent to ignore.

I consider pinching myself to make sure the house looming into my vision as we ride down a long, curved, tree-lined driveway is real.

The mansion is a sprawling L-shaped home of stone and wood that looks as one might imagine an English house does, turret and all. It sits on 2.5 acres of lush lawn and greenery in Hammersmith, made of light-colored stone with a dark rooftop and large bay windows. It is an eight-bedroom, twelve-bathroom mammoth to me, but—

“It’s a simple home,” Madame says. No, where I came from was simple. This is otherworldly.

Our car rolls to a stop in front of the brightly lit home, and the driver exits to open Madame’s door. My door pops open. Another man dressed similarly to the driver has materialized from thin air and waits for me to leave the car. I take a moment for my heart rate to slow.

She waits patiently for me as I take in my surroundings. I swallow down the bud of nervousness threatening to sprout. What hides behind those doors? I am unsure. I wait for a twinge or stirring, alerting me danger is afoot. There is nothing.

“Ready?” Madame asks.

I hesitate, worried she is going to offer her hand to me as we enter. I do not want anyone to touch me. But she doesn’t, as if she is aware of my thoughts. Instead, she motions toward the front doors. “Shall we meet Noble and Elin?”

And by “we,” she really means me.

I start biting my bottom lip, my hands rubbing up and down my pant legs, as I follow her up the stairs. The swath of red beneath her heels catches my eye. I have seen shoes like this on TV, on models. This family must be richer than their royals to be able to afford what people on TV do. The driver and the other man pull her bags out of the car. I shift my rucksack on my shoulders—my only possession.

As if by magic, the front door opens, and an older, stout Black woman with graying hair tied in a bun greets us. Her smile to me is immediate and welcoming as she ushers us in out of the cold.

“Welcome home, Ms. Delphine,” she says. Ms. Delphine, not what I have been calling her. I like this better. The older woman’s voice is pleasant, welcoming. Her voice is rich and full of soul. I bet she has endless stories within her, like the elders of my village. She turns to me. “Welcome home, Nena.”

My body goes stiff and my throat tightens. Again, having such kindness shown to me and hearing myself referred to by an actual name is alien to me. I feel unworthy of the attention they bestow on me. Terror overtakes me. I am going to disappoint them, and they will realize their error in selecting me. The thought nearly makes me run out of the door.

“Margot, hello.” The two women hug and kiss each other’s cheeks. “Where are they?”

“In the kitchen finishing lunch. Ishmael has a spread for you both, not knowing what Nena likes to eat.” Ms. Margot looks at me, and I shrug. I cannot afford a food preference. “Well, I’m sure we’ll figure it out soon enough.”

We walk down the front hall into a kitchen of gray quartz countertops, white cabinets, and dark-stained wood flooring. It is pristine with a cook busy at the counter, chopping away. Beyond in a large alcove is a round cherry table topped with even more food than was at the hotel room. My stomach growls, but thankfully the noise is drowned out by the sizzling pots and the chatter from Ms. Margo and Ms. Delphine.

A man rises from the table, dark and slender. He is taller than his wife or me but not too tall. His hair is dark and cut very low. He is clean shaven except for his perfect mustache. He removes his reading glasses and opens his arms as he approaches. Behind him, a lanky girl with his same coloring trails behind. She is beautiful. Absolutely beautiful. Graceful. And she must be Elin.

She will hate me.

“My love,” the man says. He pulls his wife into a hug and kisses her as if she’s been gone eons. I take several steps back, not wanting to intrude on their reunion, trying to blend into the walls so no one sees me.

But Mr. Noble spies me pressed against the wall, nearly out the doorway we entered. “This is Nena?”