Author: Tiffany Reisz

Kingsley watched as Daniel walked across the room and met Søren in the doorway.

“Come on,” Daniel said, looking up at Søren. “You would have tried to keep her, too.”

“Yes,” Søren agreed. “Only I would have succeeded.”

“You get more arrogant with age. Aren’t priests supposed to be humble?”

“We’re also supposed to be celibate.” Søren smiled at Daniel, and Daniel and Kingsley had to laugh. No need to fight an old battle when a new one was already brewing.

“Good point. Now someone tell me what I can do to help,” Daniel said, turning back to Kingsley.

“You can leave,” Kingsley said.

“I’m not leaving. I love Eleanor, too. You know she—”

“Tell me the names and ages of your children,” Kingsley said.

“King, I know—”

“Tell me the names and ages of your children, Daniel,” Kingsley repeated.

Daniel paused to glare at Kingsley again. “That’s not fair.”

“It was not my idea for you to get married again and have how many children?”

“Four,” Daniel said almost apologetically.

“Right. Four children. And a wife. And your wife has how many siblings that you’re taking care of?”

“Daniel...” Søren said as he came into the room. “He’s right. This is dangerous. You should go.”

“Your niece is here,” Daniel countered.

“She has a purpose being here. You don’t.”

“Well, thank you very much for that.”

“He means Laila was there,” Kingsley added. Did Søren always have to be so Søren all the time? “She knows things.”

“Who’s the guy with her? Boyfriend?”

Kingsley nearly hurt himself trying not to smile. Søren turned his glare on Daniel up a notch.

“He most certainly is not,” Søren said, his voice dangerously icy.

“Sorry. Jesus. I said ‘boyfriend’ not ‘pimp.’”

“Le prêtre is annoyingly protective of his nieces,” Kingsley explained.

“A product of spending too much time in your company,” Søren said.

“And the young man to whom you’re referring...I suppose you could call him an interested party,” Kingsley said, looking for the most tactful description of Wesley’s presence. All of it was nonsense, lies and subterfuge. Neither he nor Søren wanted nor needed any of them here—not Wesley nor Laila, not Grace. He knew why Søren insisted that they be allowed to come. He knew and refused to accept that their presence here would ever be required.

“An interested party?” Daniel repeated, a slight smile on his lips. “So he’s sleeping with Nora.”

“Précisément,” Kingsley said.

Daniel only shrugged. “Figures.”

“I’ll let you two talk,” Søren said from the doorway. “But, Daniel, for the sake of your family, you do need to go. You shouldn’t be involved in any of this.”

“I appreciate the concern,” Daniel said, and Kingsley heard no sarcasm in his words. “I was prepared to die in this house after I lost Maggie. Eleanor saved me from that fate. I owe her...everything.”

“Then do what she would want you to do,” Søren said.

“She’d want me to take care of my family first,” Daniel admitted with obvious reluctance.

“She would,” Kingsley said.

“I’ll go.” Daniel raised his hands in surrender. “But I want to know everything. I want to know when she’s safe.”

“Thank you,” Søren said with real sincerity in his voice.

“For leaving?” Daniel asked with a small laugh.

“For saying ‘when she’s safe’ and not ‘if.’”

Kingsley watched as Daniel’s jaw clenched and his eyes darkened.

“You’re welcome.”

Søren merely nodded and walked away.

Daniel exhaled heavily as if he’d been holding his breath.

“I’ve been friends with him for decades, and he still scares the shit out of me sometimes,” Daniel said.

Kingsley sat on Daniel’s desk.

“He knows he does. You make it too much fun for him.”

“I thought he was going to kill me for daring to suggest his niece had a boyfriend.”

“He might have.”

“So that boy...one of Nora’s conquests?”

“Worse,” Kingsley said, grimacing. “He’s her fiancé. Supposedly. He asked her to marry him right before he was knocked unconscious and she was taken.”

“Are we sure he asked her before he received the head injury?” Daniel winked at him.

“I knew I liked you for a reason.” Kingsley hopped off the desk and clasped Daniel by the shoulder. “I’m taking care of this. You know that I can.”

“I know you can. If anyone can work the necessary miracles it’s you two.”

“Good. Bien. Now get out of your house.”

“I’m going.”

Kingsley followed Daniel from the library. They passed the well-appointed but comfortable living room where Grace sat curled up on a couch. At the back of the room, Wesley stood staring out the window in the direction of Elizabeth’s home. They couldn’t see it from Daniel’s house but perhaps it gave him some comfort to turn toward Nora like a faithful Muslim toward Mecca. Laila came up to him and offered him a cup of something—coffee or tea, Kingsley couldn’t tell. Wesley thanked her and Laila’s face lit up like a Christmas tree.

“So he’s not Laila’s boyfriend?” Daniel whispered to Kingsley.

“Non.”

“Has anyone told Laila that?”

“Not yet.”

Kingsley followed Daniel all the way upstairs to his bedroom and supervised the packing. He knew Daniel would keep to his word and leave the house to them. But he couldn’t stomach being in the presence of the grief-stricken huddled masses down in the living room, and he could barely look Søren in the eye for the pain and fear lurking behind his steady gray gaze.

“Do you know what you’re going to do yet?” Daniel asked as soon as he’d packed the basics in his suitcase.

“Oui,” Kingsley said simply. Luckily Daniel was one of the more intelligent men he’d ever met, and he had to say nothing more than that.

“Be careful, okay?”

“You know, with my connections, I could assassinate the governor of New York in broad daylight and not get arrested.”

“I know all about your connections. It’s not the police I’m worried about. I don’t want any more reasons to have to visit cemeteries. I’d much rather visit you in prison. In fact, I might have fantasized about it a time or two.”

“No prisons, no cemeteries,” Kingsley pledged.

“I’m holding you to that.”

“Go, Daniel. Go and fuck your wife for me.”

“Happily. After I fuck her for me. Try not to break anything while I’m gone. I kind of like my house.”

“I’ll only break the bed.”

Daniel paused on the threshold of the door.

“I know you’re terrified, King. I know you’re pretending not to be for all our sakes.”

Kingsley said nothing in reply. To deny would be a lie. To agree would be to admit weakness.

“And I know...” Daniel continued, “I know you and Eleanor have had your differences. I know you and him—”

“I love him,” Kingsley said.

“I know you do. Please, don’t let that cloud your judgment.”

“I’m not going to let her die on the off chance he and I can be together. She’s one of mine. I promised him when she started working for me that I would keep her safe. One promise I intend to keep.”

“I didn’t think you’d let her die to get him. I just...” Daniel paused and raised his hand. He started ticking off on his fingers. “She saved me.”

“I’ll save them,” Kingsley pledged, and the use of “them” was no slip of the tongue. If she died, there would be no hole they could dig wide or deep enough to bury Søren’s grief. He knew this for a fact. He knew this because he once overheard Søren saying it. That was the day they buried Maggie, Daniel’s first wife.

“I know you will.” Daniel turned again but immediately spun back around. “To answer your question from earlier, it’s Marius, age nine. Byrony, age seven. Willa, age six, Archer, age four. Oh, and Leonard.”

“Leonard?”

“The goddamn cat. The other baby in the family.”

Kingsley laughed.

“You have to blame Anya if you don’t like the names,” Daniel continued. “Her rule—she has the babies, she names the babies.”

Kingsley swallowed a sudden knot in his throat. It took all his strength to meet Daniel’s eyes and speak in an unbroken voice.

“They’re beautiful names.”

“Thank you.”

“You should be with them.”

“I’m going. You’ll call when this is over.”

“Non,” Kingsley said. “She will call.”

“She better.”

“And knowing her, she’ll demand phone sex.”

“If she insists.”

Daniel gave Kingsley a long searching look, one Kingsley tried to ignore. He turned and left Kingsley alone in the master bedroom. As soon as he was alone, Kingsley sank down onto the bed, letting his guard down finally. He couldn’t let his fears overwhelm him, not when he had a job to do.

Closing his eyes, he tried running through what he remembered about Elizabeth’s home—the layout, the rooms, possible places to hide, the trees—but instead he heard Daniel’s voice. Marius, Byrony, Willa, Archer... Long ago he’d forgiven Nora for her choice not to have his child. His shock of the discovery had translated into horror to her. How many times on his bathroom floor that morning had she told him she was sorry...so fucking sorry...accident...had no intention, she swore to God. And no matter how much he tried to calm her down, she’d remained frantic, terrified, her entire life before her hanging in the balance. Every moment with Søren she had to steal. A child would steal the already too few hours he could make for her. So he let her make the choice and didn’t try to sway her, didn’t tell her the secret truth.

He’d wanted to keep it.

He pushed the thought away. The house...the hallways...the trees...the line of fire... He ran through various scenarios, visualizing the target, anticipating the worst, but it wasn’t a target, was it? His sister had Nora and he’d seen her with his own eyes.

He stood at the window in Daniel’s bedroom and stared in the direction of the house as Wesley was doing on the first floor. No doubt somewhere else Søren was staring in the same direction. “Please, Marie-Laure, don’t make me do this....”

Kingsley turned around, putting his back to the window, and noticed for the first time the rocking chair sitting in the shadows. He’d been in Daniel’s bedroom before but had no memory of such a bourgeois bit of furniture in the otherwise elegantly decorated room. It must be Anya’s doing. No doubt she had rocked the children to sleep many a night in that chair before carrying them off to the nursery and returning to her husband’s bed as his own mother had with him and Marie-Laure.

Whatever Marie-Laure’s crimes, she was still his sister. She’d even named him, his mother had told him long ago when he’d asked who was to blame for giving him such a decidedly un-French name. Marie-Laure, only three years old, had a set of paper dolls—knights and squires, lords and ladies, kings and queens. One day Marie-Laure took the king doll and placed it on top of his mother’s pregnant stomach. His American mother, wanting her daughter to know French and English, had pointed at the doll on her stomach and said, “It’s a king.” For the next two months whenever curled up with her mother, Marie-Laure would pat the growing stomach and repeat, “It’s a king. It’s a king.”