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Dude. It’s one nightmare.
Taking a deep breath, I push my thoughts aside, pay the driver, and stride up the steps into the office building.
The receptionist greets me with a cheery smile. “Good morning, Lord Trevethick.”
“Good morning, Lisa.”
“And congratulations, my lord. On your wedding.”
“Thank you.”
I head through the outer office, knock on Oliver’s door, and enter. He grins broadly; if I’m not mistaken, I think he’s pleased to see me. “Maxim. Welcome back, and congratulations.” He stands and holds out his hand.
“Thanks, Oliver.” We shake, and I’m grateful he’s been holding the fort. “And thank you for restoring the photography in my flat.”
“You noticed! It’s a pleasure. You have a good eye. You had a relaxing and enjoyable honeymoon?”
I grin. “I did, thank you.”
“We have a long agenda, so I wonder if we should get cracking.”
“Yes, of course. I want a moment, though. I’ve decided that it’s time to move into Kit’s office.”
“Very good, sir,” Oliver says gently and gestures toward the door of the hallowed room that was my brother’s and my father’s domain. “If you need anything,” he adds, “I’m here.”
“Thanks.”
I cross the floor, grab the brass handle, and open the door to the inner sanctum. Taking a deep, steadying breath, I step inside as a wave of nostalgia crashes over me. The smell, the ambience, the décor—it’s all Kit.
It’s a gut punch of memories.
One wall is lined with books and various curios: a polo ball and trophies, a model Bugatti Veyron, the family crest, and a few of his rallying trophies. The wall behind his desk has pictures, paintings, certificates, and photographs, including a large daguerreotype of Tresyllian House in Cornwall. Beside it is my photographic re-creation in black and white taken with my Leica. I reach out to straighten my print, and I’m reminded that Kit always supported my photography.
The desk is ornate, with intricate carvings and an embossed black leather top. On his desk are more portraits in gilt frames of us, Caroline, Jensen and Healey, his beloved red setters. I glide a finger over the cool, gleaming wood and then test the various drawers. They’re all locked.
There’s a knock at the door, and Oliver steps in. “You’ll need these.” He produces a set of keys, setting them down on the desk.
“Thank you.”
He looks around the office. “I haven’t been in here for a while either.” He glances at the photo of Kit shaking hands with some dignitary I don’t recognize and then back at me.
“You miss him too.” It’s a statement that causes a tightening in my chest.
“Yeah,” he says and clears his throat. “Those keys should open the desk and the filing cabinet over there.”
“Shall we get on with our meeting? We can do it at the rather fine Queen Anne table in here.”
Oliver laughs. “I’ll fetch my notebook.”
I blow out a breath as I remove and hang my coat on the hatstand, thinking about how Kit’s death has affected so many of us, even Oliver.
“What’s first on the agenda?” I ask when he returns.
“Perhaps you should do a press release about your marriage. The tabloids are pestering our director of communications.”
“Really?”
Oliver nods.
I don’t want the press delving into the minutiae of my marriage.
“I’ll think about it. And can we get me a computer for here?”
“Of course. I’ll get that sorted today.”
“What’s next?”
* * *
Alessia is in the apartment sitting at Maxim’s desk, using his iMac and trawling the internet. She’s trying to find out how to track a trafficked person. It’s an impossible task, especially as the intercom keeps buzzing. There are reporters outside, wanting to speak to Maxim. She’s feigned ignorance and is now listening to Angela Hewitt’s interpretation of Bach’s preludes and fugues from the Well-Tempered Clavier through headphones. Alessia was surprised that only a few women artists were featured in the classical albums on Apple Music. The various colors that ring in her head keep her grounded as she reads report after report from victims who have escaped their traffickers and abusers and found safety in England through the work of various charities.
It’s sobering reading.
In the back of her mind, she keeps returning to the mantra: That could have been me.
She shudders.
If she hadn’t escaped from Dante’s and Ylli’s clutches, she’d have her own harrowing story to tell, and she would, in all probability, become another appalling statistic.
A fractured shard from her nightmare pierces her mind.
Bleriana hammering on the doors at Angwin.
Her face tearstained. Her fear wild and disturbing in her eyes.
O Zot. O Zot. Poor Bleriana.
When Alessia looks up to check the time, she finds tears coursing down her cheeks. She dashes them away, more resolved to try to find her friend. Somehow.
* * *
Oliver and I are concluding our meeting. The Mayfair refurbishment is near completion, and it’s time to hire an interior designer. I need Caro to decide if she wants the gig.
