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Alfie let go of Harriet’s hand as he wrapped his arms around himself. ‘I remember being surprised that the buttery, soft leather shoes could hurt so much when he kicked me.’
Moving to stand in front of Alfie, I held him in my arms, hoping to give as much comfort to that poor inner child as the man before me.
‘You didn’t deserve that,’ I said, pressing my lips into his hair. ‘He didn’t let himself know the amazing person you are. Moulding you into another version of him was never going to work because you are so much more than he ever could have been.’
Alfie’s arms tightened around my stomach, returning the squeeze I gave him. He cleared his throat and briskly ran his hands over his eyes before pushing up off the desk to stand. ‘Guess we should check if it’s still there.’
THIRTY-TWO
ALFIE
I hated being in his office. It was like he was there, hovering over me, all of his anger and disapproval suffocating me with each passing minute. Had it been a mistake to come?
The button hadn’t done anything that day, not as far as I could remember. It was probably just a stupid childhood notion that there was even a button.
Glancing at Harriet’s hopeful face, I felt like a prize dick. I shouldn’t have gotten their hopes up. It was all beginning to feel like a wild fucking goose chase.
I crouched in front of the desk and peered underneath, the memory of that day flooding through me. The excitement and joy. The fear and pain. Grieves had slept on a fold-out bed in my room for weeks, helping me to heal. Maybe even as a protection from my own father. I owed that man so much more than I had ever given him.
‘Can I borrow your torch?’ I asked Harriet, who handed it over without a peep.
Moving a little further under the desk, it felt a million times smaller than it had back then. I searched the rich, old wood for any sign of the button.
There it was. At the upper back corner, a small wooden knob with a golden pattern rising from its curved surface. Inching closer, I flashed the light over the surface, a sharp intake of breath echoing from my own mouth.
‘What is it?’ Petros asked from behind me.
‘It’s here. And the pattern is a tiny fox cub.’
Before I could move, Harriet was forcing herself into the tiny space beside me, peering at the golden symbol. The small squeak that left her throat gave me all the confirmation I needed. Fuck, it was all true. My father had had plenty of failings. His anger, his hatred of me, his underhand dealings as part of the Scottish criminal underworld. But I’d never suspected him of the terrible things he’d done to Harriet. And others? Nausea bubbled up in my gut.
Harriet reached up and pressed the button. It moved, but nothing happened.
‘Has anything changed around the office?’ I said, raising my voice to reach Petros.
Footsteps echoed beyond the desk.
‘Can’t see anything.’
‘It has to do something,’ Harriet replied, bashing it harder. Twisting it. Finally pulling it. With the pulling, a loud click echoed through the room.
‘Holy shit,’ Petros whispered. We scrambled to dislodge ourselves from beneath the desk. Harriet’s elbow connecting with my side.
Standing up, I took stock of the office. Almost nothing had changed from my point of view. Harriet manhandled my shoulders, turning me to face the wall with my missing portrait. Right behind where my face had been hung, the panelling had swung open revealing a dark space behind it.
Inching forward, I held up the torch. Apprehension brought my neck out in a clammy sweat as I pressed my hand against the cold wood, opening it fully. Using the small beam of light, I found a light switch on the wall behind the opening, flicked it, and illuminated the space.
A bed stood in the middle of the room, a series of chairs facing it in all directions. Mirrors hung on two of the walls meaning, that no matter where you sat, you had multiple views of the bed. A shower filled one corner, and a bar the other. Behind the bar there was another door, not at all hidden.
Harriet stood frozen; her face twisted into pure fear. After seeing her as the unflappable femme fatal, it was a harrowing vision.
‘You know this place.’ There was no question in Petros’ words.
‘Yes,’ she whispered, her fingers clenching against the hem of her top. The fabric bunched in her hands. I hated seeing her like that. It was worse than seeing her slaughter a man like a farm animal. ‘I spent a long time in this room. I didn’t know it was in Rosenhall though. I woke up here after passing out. I thought they’d moved me.’
‘We can search in here if you need to go get some air outside,’ I offered.
‘I don’t want to be on my own,’ she admitted, shrinking into a corner, her arms crossing over her stomach.
