Chapter 42
Lincoln
Edgar hands me a small slip of paper, an address in his familiar handwriting. “This is his home, right?”
He nods.
“Where his fucking kids live?”
Another nod.
“Sick fuck.”
Edgar snorts, like we didn’t know that already.
I glance at the paper again, committing it to memory before handing it back to him. Adrian Farnham. Hedge fund manager, gun
lobbyist and father-in-law to the governor of Ohio. Rich enough to have security, but not enough to have the kind that can
stop people like me.
“How many guards does he have?”
Edgar holds up one finger. “One at the gate.”
“Cameras?”
He nods. “I’ll jam the feed and disable the alarm. Just tell me when.”
“Three a.m.,” I tell him. Three to four is the hour when people usually are in their deepest sleep.
Adrian is a fifty-three-year-old man, and his two youngest daughters are nine and twelve, so no teething babies or night-owl teenagers to consider.
He has no live-in help. His wife died a year ago, and instead of getting himself a new one, he bought himself his very own slave at an auction.
I’d love to slit his throat, but that would definitely draw a whole lot of attention, so for now, he gets to live.
At least if everything goes to plan. Which is to get in, get the girl, and then get out again without anyone noticing—a far cry from my last rescue.
Edgar nods his agreement, then gives me a pat on the shoulder, as much affection as I imagine him showing for anyone. “Good
luck.”
The guard on the gate is staring at the camera screens, which Edgar is about to hack into so he won’t see me climbing over
the back wall. I land on the ground with a soft thud and skirt the edge of the property to avoid triggering any security lights.
I studied the floor plan earlier, and it’s a vast house, with east and west wings. I have no idea where Lot 23 is being kept,
but I suspect the basement or somewhere as far away from the kids’ bedrooms as possible, which would mean somewhere in the
west wing of the house.
When I get to the back door, I’m relieved when no alarms go off. Not that Edgar has ever let me down before, but it’s always
a point where things could go wrong. I pick the lock and get inside, making my way along the downstairs hallway and looking
for the door to the basement, until I see the door that’s a little different from the rest. Its handle is less worn than the
others, and more alarmingly, there’s a lock. I bet he tells his kids it’s to keep them out, but my guess would be it’s more
likely intended to keep someone in.
I press my ear to the door, my breathing slow and controlled as I listen for signs of life.
I hear nothing but my own heartbeat. The bastard probably soundproofed it.
I slip my backpack off and take out the small silent drill and remove the lock in less than a minute.
Pushing open the door, I reveal a study.
A neat and tidy desk. A desktop computer.
Neatly arranged bookshelves. Why the fuck does he lock his study?
Does he not trust his staff? Unless . . .
I step into the room, my instincts telling me he’s hiding more in here than professional secrets. There’s a rug on the floor,
one of those artisan ones you might see in a café in Marrakech. Hours of quiet craftsmanship woven into the rich wool, dyed
in shades of purple and mauve. Very out of place in this otherwise bland office. I kick the edge up and am unsurprised to
uncover a wooden hatch, a trapdoor of sorts. In order to pull the rug all the way back, I’m forced to push the desk out of
the way, and as I do I uncover the entire door. It’s also fitted with a lock, a thick dead bolt ordinarily hidden from view
beneath the rug and desk. I slide it open and it glides easily, like new metal often does. It takes two hands to pull open
the heavy hatch, which is lined with some kind of metal too—something to make it soundproof, no doubt. I shine my flashlight
into the space.
It’s a small concrete room, maybe six by six feet. She’s inside, her knees pulled up to her chest, wearing a dirty shirt with
bare legs. An empty plastic cup lies on its side beside her.
She lifts her head, eyes wide and filled with fear. She’s young. Maybe eighteen. I think of Imogen, and for some reason I
pull my mask down a little, resting it beneath my jaw and revealing my mouth. “Don’t scream, okay. I’m here to help you.”
Her lower lip wobbles. “He said no one would come.”
“He lied. What’s your name, sweetheart?”
“Esme.” Her voice cracks, and I expect she hasn’t been asked her name for a long time.
I lie on the floor, sticking my arms through the hatch and holding out a hand to her. “You can trust me, Esme. You and I are
going to get out of here, okay?”
Her eyes still wide with fear, she nods.
I expect she has no idea whether she’s about to trade one monster for another, but I also expect there can’t be much worse than spending your life locked in a tiny windowless room.
I wonder how many hours a day he lets his little pet out to play for, and whether she prefers being locked in here than being with him.
Gingerly, she pushes herself up into a standing position and raises her arms. I grab onto her forearms, and lift her up, pushing
up onto my knees. There’s no leverage for her to use and I’m conscious of hurting her stick-thin arms. “Can you wrap your
arms around my neck, Esme?”
She does so, one arm and then the other. I pull her to safety, until she’s standing with her tiny body pressed against me,
arms still around my neck. She blinks up at me. I gently unwind her from me and she takes a step back, her eyes darting around
the room. She’s barefoot, but that won’t matter. My car is nearby.
“We need to get out of here, Esme.”
Her eyes are still scanning the room as she stays rooted to the spot. Is she waiting for him to come for her? Maybe she thinks
this is some kind of test.
I grab the edge of the hatch, ready to close it.
“Wait,” she whispers.
Then she sees something, something high on a shelf. She reaches and grabs it. It’s an electric shock collar, the kind assholes
use on dogs to stop them from barking. She spits on it and then throws it back through the open hatch. I close it and return
the rug and desk to their previous position, wishing I could see his face when he finds the lock on his door removed and watch
him scrabbling to open the hatch and find his little pet is gone.
I also can’t help wondering who might end up in that hellhole instead of her, and make a silent vow to ensure that nobody
will. It would be a fitting death for him to be locked down there, with no food or water—let him fucking starve to death.
As soon as I’m done, I head for the study door and that’s when I see the piece of paper, a page torn from a notepad and a black pen beside it.
They’re just sitting on top of a sideboard—a note hastily scribbled before he left the room.
Perhaps his kids were calling for him? Or his housekeeper?
And he was keen to get out of the room before they got inside.
I can picture him, cell phone pressed to his ear as he was given the name.
I see him frantically searching for something to write it on—too important a detail to risk only committing to memory.
The name sends a shiver of excitement down my spine.
Fraser Lane—a ghost from my past.
Why is his name scribbled here on a piece of paper in Adrian Farnham’s office? That can’t be a coincidence.
Esme snaps me from my memories, curling her cold fingers around mine. I turn to face her and am about to tell her to let go,
but she looks so fucking helpless and vulnerable that I allow it. We have to leave, and fast. The last thing I need is for
this to go the way of Appalachia. I pull Esme behind me, along the hallway and out of the back door, into the gardens. She
takes a deep breath of air, her head tilted up to the night sky.
“We’re not out of here yet, Esme. We have to keep moving.”
She nods once and then follows me. Maybe it’s being out here free from her prison, but the change in her is profound. She
glances around us, her eyes scanning for danger and her entire body language telling me she’s on high-alert. Esme might be
young and vulnerable but she’s far from naive, and I fucking hate that she’s experienced so much hurt already in her young
life. The Brotherhood steals many things, but women like Esme and Imogen prove that they can’t take everything.
Esme looks fidgety and nervous when we get to my SUV, which is to be expected, given what she’s endured these past few weeks. “You don’t have to get in this car. I can give you some money and you can run. Or I can take you somewhere safe and have someone help you get back on your feet.”
She stares at me and then at her bare feet. “Who are you?”
“A friend.”
She tilts her head to the side. “I think I trust you.”
“Then get in the car and let’s go.”
She climbs in and I proceed to drive out of town to the spot where I’ve agreed to meet Edgar. I talk to her along the way,
reassuring her that there’s a plan. I tell her we’re going to meet my friend, who’s going to give her the name of a place
where she can go. A place where they help women recover from traumatic experiences. Leaving Leah alone the other week really
played on my mind, and Edgar contacted the CEO of the charity in Chicago we use. She’s going to have some of her volunteers
on hand at the safe houses from now on. Keres Sideris is committed to this cause for reasons of her own, and she would have
done this anyway. But her charity just got a hefty donation from their anonymous, reclusive billionaire patron.
Edgar is waiting for us when we get to the rendezvous point. Esme climbs out of the car and leans against it, fidgeting with
her long shirt. He stares at her, a strange look on his face.
What the hell is he doing? It’s not like him to stare at anyone, and he’s risking making her nervous. I nudge him in the ribs
to get his attention and when I do, there’s so much sadness in his eyes that it makes me take a step back.
And then I see it. Esme reminded me of Imogen, purely because of her wide-eyed innocence, but actually, she looks a little
like my sister, Olivia. Edgar’s soulmate.
Fuck, the resemblance grows more startling the more I look at her.
I grab some fresh clothes and a pair of sneakers, probably a few sizes too big for her tiny feet, from his car and hand them
to her. She dresses behind the SUV and there’s a tentative smile on her face when she walks back around.
I introduce her to Edgar and he regains his composure, although he’s still looking at her like he’s seen a ghost. She doesn’t seem to mind though, appearing at ease with him.
She also doesn’t seem at all fazed by the fact that he’s deaf and even knows a little sign language.
And that makes me feel like maybe this was fate, or at least a sign from the universe that we’re doing something right.
“Edgar is going to take you to that place I told you about, okay?”
She nods. “Thank you. I don’t know why you came for me, but I’m so grateful that you did.”
“You’re welcome.”
Unexpectedly, she throws her arms around my neck and gives me a soft kiss on the cheek. “You’re a hero, you know that?”
“Not even close, sweetheart. Now get out of here.” I turn to Edgar. “I’d prefer you both to be in Chicago before that piece
of shit even realizes she’s gone.”
“Consider it done.”
I watch them drive away, feeling better about delivering Esme to people who’ll take care of her, rather than the way I left
Leah. I have no idea what the fuck’s gotten into me. It used to be we left them in a safe house with enough cash to start
over and then I rarely gave them a second thought afterward. Now, I see her in all their faces, and it’s making me fucking soft.
Imogen is all I can think about. My entire body burns with hunger for her. I need to get home and have her in my arms. In
my bed. Sometimes, I feel like I can hardly fucking breathe without her. She’s everything. The other half of my heart and
soul. And it terrifies me how much I need her when there’s still so much about me she doesn’t know, and still so much left
for me to do. It’s unfair of me to drag her any deeper into my life, but I don’t know how to keep her at arm’s length anymore.
She’s burrowed herself into my heart and I never want her to leave.