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Why did Loïc have a jail cell with bars in his basement?
Why was he in it?
The cell floor was covered in old straw, which explained the petting zoo smell, at least. There were no windows down here. There were, however, several rows of old, mostly empty wine racks. Had this originally been a secret wine cellar? If so, what was the jail cell for?
“I wonder which of us this was meant for?” Valor whispered to me uneasily.
“This was only meant for him,” Jack assured us.
I laced my fingers with Valor’s, needing his steady presence. In the cell, Loïc finally looked relaxed. The old, holey wool blanket couldn’t have been much less itchy than the straw it was spread on, but he was curled on his side, eyes at half-mast.
“He’s told me things about his childhood—about being punished when he displeased his mother. What if the abuse was even worse than he told us?” Valor’s fists were clenched.
“You think she kept him in a place like this?”
“Considering everything else she put her children through, I wouldn’t put it past the bitch.”
“But she’s gone now. Why would he do this to himself?” I couldn’t help but ask.
“Maybe he feels safe down here because it’s familiar.”
I mulled it over, fitting the piece into the puzzle of Loïc’s life, but not sure if it was in the right spot. “Think about it—no furniture in the house other than a mattress on the floor. Maybe that much felt like absolute luxury.”
“With the money he inherited, you’d think he would go out and fill the place with everything he’d ever wanted.” Teenaged Valor would have drooled over the idea of a home theater with comfy chairs and a big screen for video games.
“Remember at our first apartment, when we could finally afford the second-hand TV stand, and could get rid of the milk crates?”
Valor gave a solemn nod. “I kept feeling out of place in our own apartment.”
“Having the mattress on the floor upstairs was a big step for him,” Jack said quietly, startling us both. “It took some convincing. He still sleeps on the floor beside it most of the time.”
My gaze flew to Loïc. His eyes were closed. Was he asleep?
“He’s actuallysleeping,” Valor said, sounding as stunned as I felt. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen him completely asleep.”
Jack shrugged. “To be asleep is to be vulnerable. Dozing is one thing, but actual sleep is a luxury when you never feel safe.”
“I hate her so much.” I couldn’t remember feeling so angry—so absolutely furious. “I wish I could dig her up and kill her again.”
“There’s a lineup for that privilege, but you’re welcome to join us,” Jack said, smiling at me approvingly.
For hours we talked quietly with Jack, none of us willing to leave Loïc alone down here. Valor puttered, bringing down chairs and snacks, fussing over me and watching Loïc with so much concern that I realized he loved Loïc a lot more than he let on. I knew they talked to each other a lot, but to me, Valor usually talked about Loïc like he was an exasperating nuisance.
Part of me had worried he was agreeing to the wedding for my sake, and because of the baby, but the way his worried gaze kept settling on our fiancé warmed my heart.
“The doctor said there’s a chance he’ll have long-term effects from this,” Valor said when there was a lull in me grilling Jack about the farming commune they were planning with a group of friends. From the sounds of it, Loïc had been generous with how much he’d paid Jack to be his confidant, but it was easy to see how much Jack loved Loïc—like a sibling, or maybe like a kid who’d stumbled across an extra-terrestrial stranded on Earth. Love and affection and responsibility were woven together between the two of them.
“He’s been through a lot.” I rubbed at my tired eyes. “We have to believe he can work through this, too.”
“You said he didn’t have any seizures, so that’s a good sign, according to Dr. Google,” Jack said, brandishing their phone. “You also caught them before they hurt him anyworse.”
“Thank god for the woman who put her AirTag in the guy’s hood.” Valor leaned back in his chair, exhaustion in every line of his body. “The detective I was talking to said they followed the guy back to their home base. They rescued several people—women and men—from the basement there. I’d wondered if this was personal, or maybe that they were deranged fans, but no. They were human traffickers.”
Jack grimaced. “Being pretty gives Loïc a lot of advantages in life, but it also makes him a target. Always has.”
A few feet away, Loïc startled, then began pleading in French.
“I hate when he says that,” Jack grumbled when Loïc started to repeat himself.
