45. Tarquin
45
TARQUIN
A scared sob drifts through the door.
I crouch lower, making myself less imposing, even though she can’t see me. “Amélie. Your mummy sent me to find you. She’s waiting to see you right now.”
A long pause follows, then the sound of small movements behind the wall. I wait, every instinct urging action but experience counselling patience. Children, like wounded animals, can’t be rushed.
“Are you a bad man?” The question comes in a whisper.
“No,” I answer softly. “I’m a friend. Your mummy’s friend.”
Another pause. “Mummy’s in heaven. That’s what Daddy says.”
The words, though not unexpected, make me sick to my stomach. That manipulative bastard told a three-year-old her mother was dead.
“Daddy made a mistake, Amélie. Your mummy is very much alive,” I say, keeping my voice gentle despite the rage building inside me. “She misses you terribly and has been looking for you for a very long time.”
A subtle shift in the bookcase reveals a small opening, just enough for a pair of wary blue eyes to peer through. Synthia’s eyes, unmistakably.
“My name is Tarquin,” I continue, remaining perfectly still. “I promised your mummy I would bring you to her tonight.”
The eyes study me with a gravity no child should possess. “Daddy says strangers lie.”
“That’s often true,” I acknowledge, surprising myself with my honesty. “But sometimes strangers can help us when we’re in danger.”
The bookcase shifts a bit more, revealing a narrow space behind to be a panic room Jeremy installed for his stolen possession. The child huddled inside is small for her age, her hair tangled around a heart-shaped face that echoes Synthia’s features.
In her hands, she clutches a photograph so worn its edges have softened. I can just make out Synthia’s face in the image, younger and smiling.
“Your mummy is pretty, isn’t she?” I ask, nodding toward the photograph.
Amélie nods, her fingers tightening protectively around the picture.
“Your mummy looks just the same,” I tell her. “Except she smiles even more when she talks about you.”
Something shifts in Amélie’s expression, a fragile spark of hope. “Is she... is she really not in heaven?”
The question constricts something in my chest. I think suddenly of my own mother’s funeral, of the bewildered incomprehension I felt at such a young age, trying to understand why everyone insisted she was in a better place when clearly the best place was with me.
“No, darling,” I say, the endearment slipping out. “She’s very much here. Waiting to hold you again.”
Amélie inches forward, still clutching her photograph. “Does she still want me? Even after I’ve been bad?”
“You haven’t been bad,” I say firmly. “And yes, she wants you more than anything in the world.”
Another small step forward. She’s nearly at the threshold now, her small body tense with indecision.
“Were you friends with my mummy for a long time?” she asks, studying my face with disconcerting intensity.
I consider lying, offering the simple answer a child might accept. But something in her eyes makes me choose truth.
“No,” I admit. “I’ve only known her a short while. But in that time, she’s spoken of nothing but finding you.”
Amélie considers this, head tilted slightly. “Does she sing the elephant song?”
The question catches me off guard. Synthia had mentioned singing to Amélie, but not specific songs. I could fabricate an answer, but that would undermine the fragile trust building between us.
“I don’t know about the elephant song,” I tell her honestly. “But I know she used to sing to you. She told me only a few minutes ago.”
This, unexpectedly, seems to convince her. Amélie steps fully through the hidden doorway, still keeping a careful distance.
A sound from elsewhere in the house reminds me of our precarious situation. I need to get Amélie out immediately.
“We should go find your mummy now,” I say, extending my hand but not moving to touch her. “Will you come with me?”
Amélie studies my offered hand, then looks up at my face with an expression far too evaluating for a child her age. “Will there be shouting? I don’t like shouting.”
“No shouting,” I promise. “Just outside, where Mummy is waiting.”
After a final moment of consideration, she places her tiny hand in mine. Her fingers are cold, and I resist the urge to envelop them completely in my much larger hand. Instead, I maintain the lightest contact, letting her set the terms of our connection.
“Will Daddy be coming as well?”
I shake my head. “No, Daddy has to stay here for a while.”
She nods, a look of relief washing over her little face, an emotion she probably doesn’t even know how to name. It breaks my heart.
“I need to carry you,” I explain gently. “It’s faster, and we need to be quick and quiet. Is that all right?”
She nods, lifting her arms in the universal childhood gesture of acceptance. I lift her carefully, surprised by how little she weighs. She settles against my chest, one hand still clutching her treasured photograph, the other gripping the fabric of my jacket.
“Hold tight,” I murmur, supporting her with one arm while keeping my other hand free to access my weapon if necessary.
We move through the bedroom and back into the corridor. I pause at each junction, listening for any sign of danger, but the house remains silent. Amélie’s warmth against my chest feels simultaneously foreign and oddly right, her small heart beating rapidly against mine.
“Are you a prince?” she whispers suddenly as we descend the main staircase.
The question is so unexpected that I nearly miss a step. “What makes you ask that?”
“You talk like the princes in my stories,” she explains seriously. “And Caroline says only a prince can rescue a princess.”
“Caroline?”
“Daddy’s girlfriend. She is nice. I haven’t seen her for a while. She said she was going shopping, but I didn’t see her again.”
Something dangerously close to emotion threatens my composure. “Well, I’m afraid not,” I reply, keeping my voice steady, hoping that whoever this Caroline is, she made a run for the hills. “Just someone who wants to help your mummy find you.”
We’re nearly at the bottom of the stairs when a shadow detaches from the darkness ahead. I shift Amélie protectively, hand moving instinctively toward my weapon, before recognising Declan’s familiar outline.
“Situation resolved,” he says, his eyes flicking to Amélie before meeting mine again. The message is clear: Jeremy Rayne is dead.
I nod once in acknowledgment.
Declan moves closer, his expression softening as he looks at Amélie. “Hello, little one,” he says, his usual intensity tempered to something gentler.
Amélie regards him solemnly, pressing closer to my chest. “Are you a friend of my mummy too?”
“I am,” Declan confirms, a smile touching his lips briefly. “A very good friend.”
She studies him with the same gravity she’d turned on me earlier. “You look scary,” she decides finally, “but your eyes are kind.”
A surprised laugh escapes Declan—perhaps the first genuine laugh I’ve heard from him. “That’s probably the most accurate assessment anyone’s ever made of me.”
The moment of levity breaks as the security system chirps, indicating the front gate has been accessed. We both tense, but Declan’s phone buzzes with a message.
“Tristan. He says St. Clare is here,” he confirms after checking it. “Right on schedule.”
We move to the front entrance, positioning ourselves strategically as headlights sweep across the windows in the twilight that is drawing in. Moments later, a sharp knock sounds on the door.
Declan opens it to reveal IPP Commander St. Clare and two of his officers behind him, faces professionally blank.
“Sir Tarquin,” St. Clare nods. His eyes move to Amélie, who watches him warily.
“We found her alone, hidden in a panic room. The only staff present was an unconscious security guard currently secured under the stairs.”
St. Clare’s eyebrow raises slightly. “Alone? No caretaker?”
“None,” I confirm, the implication clear. We agreed that finding Amélie with adult supervision would necessitate a different approach than finding her essentially abandoned.
Understanding passes between us. St. Clare nods once. “Convenient.”
“Fortuitous,” I correct smoothly. “For all concerned.”
St. Clare nods again. “I’ll handle the paperwork personally. The child was found abandoned following an anonymous tip about neglect. We’ll need to look around.”
Declan speaks up, “Of course.”
Shifting Amélie to a more comfortable position, her head now rests against my shoulder. Fatigue is beginning to overcome her wariness. I take that as confirmation that Declan has cleaned up whatever mess he left.
“We should go,” Declan interjects, checking his watch. “Synthia’s waited long enough.”
St. Clare steps aside, allowing us passage. “I’ll contact you tomorrow with the official paperwork.”
“You know where to find us,” I murmur.
St. Clare’s mouth twitches in what might almost be a smile.
We exit the house quickly, moving through the misty darkness toward the back gate. Amélie stirs against my shoulder as the cool night air touches her face.
“Are we going to Mummy now?” she asks sleepily as we head across the field.
“Yes,” I promise, holding her more securely as we approach the car. “She’s just there, waiting for you.”
The child’s arms tighten around my neck, fear and anticipation warring in her small body. I whisper reassurances as we spot Tristan and Synthia waiting outside the car.
For a heartbeat, time suspends. Synthia’s eyes lock with mine, then move to the small figure in my arms. Her hand rises to cover her mouth, a sound somewhere between a sob and her daughter’s name escaping her lips.
Amélie lifts her head from my shoulder. Her entire body goes still, then trembles with recognition.
“Mummy?” she whispers, the word half question, half prayer.
What happens next will stay with me always. The moment when disbelief transforms into certainty, when a child realises fairy tales sometimes come true, when ‘forever’ becomes ‘now.’
“Mummy!” Amélie cries, her body surging toward Synthia with a force that nearly breaks my grip.
As I pass this precious child into her mother’s waiting arms, I understand with perfect clarity what we’ve truly accomplished tonight. Not vengeance, though that was necessary. Not justice, though that was served.
What we’ve done is nothing less than restoration. We’ve mended something that should never have been broken.
And in doing so, perhaps we mended something in ourselves as well.