“No. You’re actually British although it’s true you don’t sound like it.”
“Because I’m not British.” I say it dryly, without too much sarcasm, because provoking him too much wouldn’t work out. My belly doesn’t need another kick. Regardless, I don’t understand what he hopes to gain by calling me British. He might just be crazy, which would be very bad. You can work with the rational. Not so with the insane.
He chuckles. “My dear, your father was a British diplomat, and your mother was from London. That does, I believe, make you British.”
“My mom was born in Los Angeles.” Not gonna let him mess with my head with his bullshit.
“Unfortunately, no. Your father was not, as you’ve been led to believe, Otto himself, but Otto’s best friend. They golfed together, spent time together, conversed over aged Scotches and French cheese. You see, your father was from a well-to-do family, although obviously not an aristocrat or anything of that sort. He left a nice flat in London worth quite a bit of money, but sadly, that won’t be yours. His younger brother took it and sold it off. He’s a little shit with money problems. Never seen a horse he didn’t want to bet on. But at least he’s popular with the ladies. He would’ve liked you. You’re his type.” He rakes his eyes over me again, making my skin crawl.
Although my main focus is on freeing myself and finding an opportunity to overpower him, part of my head is struggling to process what he’s saying. Is any of it true? The story he’s spinning is outrageous. Besides, I just can’t picture Mom having an affair.
He adds, “But to continue about your father and Otto—their wives were tight, too. Always having their tea parties. Earl Grey and scones. Very British and civilized. But then Otto liked to wear a veneer of respectability, and your daddy was one of many props.”
I move the knife up and down faster. My impatience earns me two more nicks.
Suddenly, Trey wags his finger and my heart almost stops. “But then your dad had to ruin it all. He found out about Otto’s extracurricular activities, and instead of letting it go like a smart man would, he confronted him. Apparently, nobody taught your father that the way to go when you discover a scheme like that is to join in the profitable venture. There’s a demand for state secrets from Great Britain as well. Some of my buyers would’ve paid good money for them. We could’ve all been rich together.” He shakes his head. To this asshole, destruction and deaths of the innocent mean nothing. Everything’s about what’s in it for him.
“He did the right thing,” I say to keep him talking.
“No, he did the stupid thing. You see, Otto didn’t take it well. He thought their friendship should mean more. After all, nations…” He shrugs. “They’re so faceless.” He waves his gun and leans forward again. “They lackintimacy, if you get my meaning.”
If he expects me to nod and agree, he’s going to be disappointed. I continue to stare at him levelly.
He pulls back at my lack of reaction. “So…” He points the gun at me, and my pulse jumps. A fresh coat of sweat pools in my palms; the knife almost slips from my grip. “Bang!”
My heart in my throat, I flinch.
He smiles. “Goes the diplomat. Andbang!”
This time I manage to keep still, but my skin is clammy all over.
“Goes the wife.” He sighs with a theatrical mournfulness. “Then you… You were just a little baby.”
“So where’s ‘bang, goes the baby’?” My voice is shaky despite my resolve to stay strong. This story has to be fake, but it’s still terrible.
He has the audacity to place a hand over his heart, but the unholy amusement in his eyes says he’s enjoying this entirely too much. “We aren’t monsters.”
“Right. How do I know you aren’t making this story up to get me to hand over the dossiers?”
He blinks. “But why would I lie? There are so many ways for me to get what I want without”—he waves the gun vaguely—“fabrication. If you play nice, I’ll even make your death quick and painless.”
We’ll see about that last part. Not letting him kill me without a fight. “Then how did I survive? Why didn’t my mom think it was weird that Dad brought me home from his dead friend’s house? Didn’t she know I was somebody else’s baby?”
“Oh, my innocent little child.” Trey tsks and shakes his head. “By coincidence, Sarah’s own daughter had just been killed. Blown to bits by a suicide bomber while the family was in Jenin. So when Otto brought you home, she was ecstatic. And if she thought something was weird…? Well…” A Gallic shrug. “Better to think her baby was alive than dead. For her own mental health anyway. She was never quite right in the head to begin with.”
I want to deny it, but Momwasalways a bit weird. Sometimes smothering, but oftentimes distant and withdrawn. I thought she was just moody, but what if…?
“Not that that was a problem for Otto. He liked it that his wife didn’t have her shit together. Easier to lie and gloss over things. The kind of things he did aren’t so easy to hide if your spouse is observant and clever. Like you.”
No way. No freakin’ way.Trey is playing with my head. “You’re lying.”
He shrugs again. “Get somebody from your mother’s side of the family and do some DNA testing. Otto was an only child, but Sarah wasn’t.”
“Nope. You’re lying.” But doubt spreads like poison in my head.
“Believe what you will. No skin off my nose. But no matter what you tell yourself, you aren’t Otto’s, and you aren’t American.” All humor drains from his face. “Now. Where are the dossiers, Bobbi?”
“Like I said, I don’t know. And unlike you, I don’t lie.”
