“That’s a secret.”

Eleanor opened her mouth and then promptly shut it.

“Here,” Søren said. “I’ve been intending to do this for some time now.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a silver case. He opened the case and extracted a business card. Black paper. Silver ink. He held out the card and she reached for it. Søren pulled the card two inches out of her reach.

“Before I give you this card, you must make me a promise,” he said. “You will show it to no one. You will keep it to yourself. You will not call the number on the card. You will never go to that address except in the direst of emergencies. And by direst I’m referring to such events one would describe as apocalyptic. You can make this promise?”

“I promise,” she said.

Søren stared at her another moment and then let her have the card.

“I’m trading you a King for a king,” Søren said, holding up her story.

Eleanor read the card.

Kingsley Edge, Edge Enterprises, it read. 152 Riverside Drive.

The card contained no other information but a phone number.

“Kingsley Edge. He lives on Riverside Drive? That’s where all the rich people live, right?”

Søren inclined his head.

“Kingsley is not without means.”

“So he’s rich?”

“Filthy,” Søren said.

“Does he own a Rolls-Royce?”

“Two of them.”

Eleanor pondered that. So now she knew whose Rolls that Søren had driven off in that night.

“He’s also dangerous, Little One, and I don’t use the word lightly.”

She suppressed a smile. When he called her Little One, her fingers trembled and her feet itched and her thighs tightened.

“I like him already. He’s your friend?”

“Yes. Now put the card away. Keep it safe. Emergency use only. Understood?”

“Understood.”

She slipped the card into her back pocket.

“Okay, now you can have my story.”

“Thank you.” Søren stuck the folder under his arm. “Before I take full possession of this fine piece of erotic satire, might I ask you one question?”

“I really wish you wouldn’t.”

“Why does the king tie Esther to the bed?”

Eleanor cocked her head to the side. That wasn’t the question she’d expected him to ask.

“I don’t know. I’ve been reading these books by Anne Rice and there’s a lot of stuff like that in them.”

“I think you do know why he did it, and it isn’t because you read about it in a book. Tell me the truth.”

She pondered the question a moment.

“I think he tied her to the bed for the same reason a smart man who is not an idiot would put a lock on his Ducati.”

“Because he doesn’t want it stolen?”

“No,” she said, and knew she had the right answer. If this was a test she’d show up to take it with nothing but a pencil.

“Then why?”

“Because he loves it.”

14

Eleanor

THANKSGIVING BREAK ARRIVED AND ELEANOR nearly cried with relief. Finally she would have her answers from Søren. She’d watered that goddamn stick in the ground for six straight months without missing a single day. She’d been sick in bed, and she’d gone to water it. It had stormed, and she’d watered it. It had even snowed last week, and she’d trudged through six inches of white powder in her beat-up combat boots and watered it. That day, it had been so unnaturally cold the water had turned to ice the moment it touched the ground. The day after Thanksgiving equaled exactly six months from the day she’d begun. She had twelve questions ready for Søren. He’d better be ready to answer them.

1. What’s the second reason you’re helping me?

2. What’s the third reason being with me is problematic?

3. Why will your friend help me?

4. Why does a priest have his own handcuff key?

5. Whose feet should I be sitting at?

6. Why does everyone at church think your name is Marcus Stearns and your Bible says your name is Søren Magnussen?

7. Why do you want me to obey you forever?

8. Are you a virgin?

9. I’m a virgin. Are you okay with that?

10. When will you keep your end of the deal?

11. Who are you?

12. Are you in love with me?

If she had the answers to all these questions, she knew she would know everything she needed to know about Søren.

She spent Thanksgiving Day alone with her mom. They had turkey and mashed potatoes and a chocolate pie Eleanor had begged her mother to make. Eleanor slept for four straight hours after their dinner. She blamed the turkey for her coma but she knew it was simple exhaustion. Going to school five days a week and then spending seven days a week at church had worn her out. She couldn’t complain, though. Better than juvie.

The day after Thanksgiving dawned bright and cold and painfully beautiful. She had to squint to see the sky for all the light shining down and reflecting off the snow. Her mother had to work that day, so Eleanor had the house to herself. Bliss. Utter bliss. She ate leftovers, wrote, read and tried not to obsess over the answers Søren would have to her questions. She would go to Sacred Heart this evening on the pretense of working on something. She’d water that f**king stick for the final time, go to Søren’s office and hand him her list of questions. And then she’d have something truly to be grateful for.