“I’m glad.” I smile up at him, and I am genuinely happy. Tennis has been a constant in his life, but Richter stole the joy, and Damien hasn’t played since he quit the circuit. The knowledge that he is finding his way back to something that he loved bubbles through me.
That happiness, however, is tainted. Because I saw the storm in Damien’s eyes when he took me so wildly only a few hours ago. And I saw the fury of that same storm just now as he attacked the stream of balls.
“Was it your father?” I ask gently. “Is he the one who turned the photos over to the court?”
I see the shadows cross his face again, and when he turns and starts to tug me toward the edge of the court, I fear that he isn’t going to answer. But we are not returning to the path. Instead, he sits on the lounge where I had been only moments before. He stretches his legs out in front of him, and then pats the space beside him. I lay on my side, propped up on my elbow so that I can watch his expression as he speaks, but it takes so long for him to begin talking that I start to wonder if I’d been wrong about why he has brought me here.
I am about to suggest that if we are going back to sleep, the bed inside would be a much more comfortable choice, when he shifts and looks at me.
“I don’t think it was my father,” he says. “He seemed genuinely baffled when I confronted him about the pictures.”
“Oh.” My brow furrows with worry and confusion. “So you don’t have any idea who it could be?” That would certainly explain the storm I saw in his eyes.
“I don’t,” he agrees. There is silence. Then, “I’m worried about Sofia.”
I don’t understand the transition. “I know you are, but she’ll check in. If she’s playing roadie to a band in Shanghai, she’s probably not—”
“I’m afraid she’s running,” Damien says simply. “I’m afraid someone’s harassing her.” He strokes my cheek, his eyes burning into me.
“Oh, God,” I say with sudden understanding. “You think someone is trying to get to you through the women you love. Me. Sofia.”
“I think it’s possible.” He scrubs his hands over his face and through his hair. “I think a lot of things are possible. All I know for certain is that those goddamn photos were my salvation whether I like to think about them that way or not.”
“They were,” I agree.
“And I still don’t know who or why, which leads me to think that someone is playing with me. They’ll reveal themselves eventually, and when they do, they’re going to want something from me. Tit for tat.”
I want to argue with him, but what he says makes sense. I sit up and draw my knees to my chest. “But how does that tie in with Sofia being missing?”
Even in the dark, I can see the way his eyes cut away from me.
“Damien?” I press. “What aren’t you telling me?”
I hear him draw in a breath. “Richter abused her, too.” The words are flat, matter-of-fact, and they chill me to the bone.
“Oh.”
He continues without pausing. “If there are photos of me, there are undoubtedly photos of her. Someone delivered a set to me—through the court, but still to me. What if someone did the same to her?”
I tremble. I think of how the photos wrecked Damien, a man with so much strength it awes me. What would they do to this fragile girl? “But wouldn’t she call you? Aren’t you the one she’d turn to for help?”
“I don’t know. Sofia is many things, but predictable isn’t one of them. She once disappeared for six months. Turned out she screwed some guy who did time making fake passports, and since I haven’t been able to find any evidence that she left the UK under her own name, I can’t help but wonder if she’s hooked up with him again. She’s smart and she’s fearless. She’s lived on the streets, so if she feels like she needs to hide, she can disappear better than anyone. Most important, she’s fucked up enough to happily fall off the grid.”
“I get that you love her, and I get that she’s not entirely stable, and I get that you’re worried. But, Damien,” I say gently, “she’s an adult. And no matter what your history, she’s not your responsibility.”